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LETTERS ' 



TO 



MY PUPILS: 



Mnxalin nni IJingrEpljiriil IkBttjirs. 



BY 

MRS. L/ h/sIGOURNEY. 



" It "was always pleasant to rae toth to learn and to 
teach." — Beds. 



NEW YORK: 

ROBERT CARTER & BROTHERS, 

No. 285 BROADWAY. 



1851. 



^f-i-^yi^^^lPC^^i^i^ >S-t^'Zc%£d<^f/ J^C^i^'^l^' 



%•! 



•I 



LA- 



Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1851, by 

ROBERT CARTER & BROTHERS, 
In the Clerk's Office for the Northern District of New York. 



STEREOTYPED BY THOMAS B. SMITH, 
216 WILLIAM STREET, N. T. 



TO TIJE 



CHILDREN OF MY FORMER PUPILS, 



Ei)\s 33ooit IS BctjfcatetJ 



BY THEIR MOTHER'S FRIEND 



AND THEIR OWN. 



PREFACE. 

Instructors are wont to find the requisitions of 
written thought, formidable to their pupils. Espe 
cially, to the younger classes, the production of grave 
essays, at stated times, and the liabilities of criticism, 
are appalling. The reluctance of those entrusted to 
my care, was diminished by being encouraged to sim- 
ple efforts in the epistolary style, addressed to me, 
with the expectation of a response. 

My letters, thus prompted, became numerous ; and 
it has been recently suggested that, coupled with 
some delineation of the schools that called them forth, 
they would be interesting to others still engaged in 
the pursuits of education. Of this, I am, perhaps, not 
the best judge. But at least, I am sure of having 
found great pleasure in their preparation. It has 
given new life to imagery and associations connected 
with those lovely and true-hearted beings, whose inter- 
course made some of the years of early life so cloud- 
less. 

1* 



iy PREFACE. 

The letters contained in this volume, are a severe 
selection from the mass that had accumulated, for in 
rejecting those which were so interspersed with local 
matter, as to be less adapted to the public eye, 
scarcely a decimation survived the ordeal. With 
their appendant descriptive and biographical sketches, 
may they be neither an unacceptable nor useless 
oflfering from one who would fain leave some tribute 
of gratitude for the unalloyed happiness which, both 
as pupil and teacher, it has been her lot to taste. 

L. H. S. 

Hartford, Connecticut, 
AprU, 1851. 



CONTENTS. 

PAGE 
THE WELCOME, ...... 7 

laiSTAKES, ....... 12 

FILIAL GRATITUDE, . . . . .19 

SOCIAL INTERCOURSE, .... 32 

PATRIOTISM, . . . . . . .38 

FITLY-SPOKEN WORDS, .... 44 

TREATMENT OF THE ERRING, . . .57 

SKETCH OF AN EARLY FRIEND, ... 66 



MEMORIES OF KINDNESS, 



78 



REMINISCENCE OF AN AGED MAN, . . 88 



THE FUTURE HOME, 

LOANS, 

INTERCESSORY PRAYER, . 



112 
122 
132 



THE FAREWELL, 140 



VI 



CONTEN TS. 



SECOND PART. 





PA.OE 


MY SCHOOLS, 


. 149 


MY DEAD, 


. 205 


JULIA NORTON, 


. 206 


SARAH RUS8, 


. 216 


BETSEY LAW BISHOP, 


. 219 


ELIZABETH BALDWIN, .... 


. 221 


MARY OLCOTT BARRY 


. 224 


CAROLINE COLLINS, .... 


. 227 


MARGARET COLT, 


. 232 


CHARLOTTE HULL, 


. 237 


SARAH ANN COLT, 


. 241 


MARY H. PITKIN NORTON, 


. 244 


ALICE COGSWELL, 


. 249 


EMILY TISDALE NICHOLS, 


. 263 


HARRIETTE E. WADSWORTH BRLJOIEB, 


. 267 


WELTHA F. ROBINSON, .... 


. 271 


CHARLOTTE M'CRAE VASS, .... 


. 275 


FRANCES E. CLARKE 


. 279 


MARY JANE PECK, 


. 281 


MARY LATHROP SPRAGUE, 


. 289 


ELIZA GREW JONES, 


. 294 


FRANCES ANTI BRACE BUNCE, . 


. 303 


SUSAN BUNCE HENCHMAN, .... 


. 312 


MARY JANE CHESTER HOVKY, . 


. 315 


ELIZA A. SMITH KING, .... 


. 324 


MARY DODD RUSS BURROUGHS, 


. 327 


CAROLINE MORGAN, 


. 330 


CORNELLS SOPHIA WYLLYS, 


. 337 



B ai^Hrnmj. 



This fair summer morning has to me a new 
and peculiar brightness, as reflected from your 
beaming eyes and smiling countenances. There 
seems a consent between nature and your young 
hearts, to make our first interview pleasant. 
Methinks they already warmly respond to the 
welcome that I bear you. May a blessing 
rest on the intercourse that thus auspiciously 
begins. 

The sanction of parents and guardians whom 
you trust and revere, to whose affection and 
care you are deeply indebted, has brought us 
together, — a hallowed sanction. I accept the 
privilege with gratitude. They have accorded 
it, with a view to your welfare. Let us see 
that they are not disappointed in their hope. 

On some of your faces, I now look for the 



8 T H E W E L C O M E . 

first time. But we will not long be strangers. 
No. The path where we shall travel side by- 
side, the objects that we shall mutually pursue, 
will soon create sympathy of aspiration and en- 
joyment. Not sufficiently your senior to pre- 
clude me from the position of an older sister, I 
give you my hand in love. I offer you my aid. 
I put myself at your head in all difficulties. 
When the ascent of knowledge becomes steep 
and arduous, I will be your pioneer, endeavor- 
ing to make the crooked straight, and the rough 
places plain. I will rejoice in your joys, and 
in your afflictions be afflicted. 

And now, will you do your part? Impor- 
tant duties devolve on you. My welcome is not 
to a state of indulgence and sloth, but to daily, 
persevering effort, and sometimes to that con- 
flict with obstacles, by which the mind learns 
how to estimate its own strength, and how to 
increase it. I would not conceal from you, 
that laborious study is involved in the success- 
ful attainment of knowledge. But the reward 
surpasses the toil, as far as light excelleth dark- 
ness. Difficulties are to be vanquished, and 



THE WELCOME. 9 

foes to be overcome, and I welcome you to 
no such victory as indolence may purchase. 
I have not promised you roses without thorns, 
or a harvest without the plough, but summon 
you to the diligent use of the powers and 
opportunities which your Creator has be- 
stowed. 

More steadfastly to promote the advantages 
which we seek, I have adopted definite reg- 
ulations for the distribution of your time, and 
your modes of intercourse while tog-ether, to 
which I ask your signature, and cordial con- 
currence. The code has been formed with a 
view to individual improvement, and to our 
comfort as a community. It will be daily 
read, that it may be readily remembered, 
and your compliance with its requisitions 
will be counted a proof of your regard. It 
has been well said by one of our poets, that 
*' order is Heaven's first law :" let it be ours 
also. 

One paramount mode of rendering study 
pleasant, is the culture of kind affections 
toward your associates. Engaged in the 



10 THE WELCOME. 

same noble pursuit, nearly of the same age, 
subject for a time to the same restrictions, 
animated by the same hopes, armed with 
powers essentially to retard or to facilitate 
each other's progress, the elements of friend- 
ship and sympathy are within your reach, 
and your truest policy. Let courtesy and 
tenderness prompt your language and deport- 
ment, rejoice in each other's improvement or 
commendation, and let the unhappiness of 
one, awaken the sorrow of all. Regarding 
you as a band of sisters, as an endeared 
family circle, I repeat to you the blessed 
words of my Saviour to his disciples, '' See 
that ye love one another." 

And now, precious ones, having been, in- 
stalled in the high office and dignity of your 
instructor, let me assure you that I am not 
willing simply to hear recitations, to keep the 
order of your classes, to impress the contents 
of your text-books, or to distinguish scholastic 
excellence. These are parts of my vocation, 
and delightful parts ; — yet am I not content 
therewith. Having welcomed you to no 



THE WELCOME. 11 

course of ease or frivolity, but to a solemn 
sense of the worth of education, I would en- 
ter for you, on its broadest field, striving 
and praying to provide you with moral as 
well as intellectual wealth; — habits that 
shall render solitude sweet, sickness endura- 
ble, and age venerable ; — principles and affec- 
tions that shall make life beautiful, and 
death a messenger of peace. This, with your 
help, and the blessing of God, I will attempt ; 
and may the welcome we have given each 
other, this day, be remembered in heaven, 
yes, — prolonged through eternity. 



At the commencement of almost every im- 
portant enterprise, there are incumbrances to 
be removed. In some occupations, this is the 
most serious part of the labor : to drain the 
morass, to clear the stones from a flinty 
glebe, or to extirpate, root and branch, the 
great trees of the forest, is a heavier toil, than 
to guide the plough, or sow the seed, or garner 
the harvest. 

So, when we begin the great worl of edu- 
cation, there may possibly be found, even in 
the fair area of the female mind, some weeds 
to be removed, some waste places i be reno- 
vated, ere the opening rose-bud can well meet 
the sunbeam, or the clustering grapes vigor- 
ously ripen. 

There are some mistakes easily made, but 



MISTAKES. 13 

which, if adhesive, are both troublesome, and 
hurtful. — For instance, I have heard young 
people say, or seen them conduct as if they 
thought, that to forget v^as no fault. Now, 
if you lose what was entrusted to you to 
keep, whether it be a precept, a promise, or a 
coin, you commit an act of unfaithfulness. 
The loss may be either your own, in the 
squandering of the fruits of knowledge, or 
that of others, who expected you to return 
** their own with usury." 

Could not this have been prevented ? Phi- 
losophy calls memory, but fixed attention 
Cannot you therefore, so fix your attention, 
so charge the retentive power to be watchful 
and faithful, as to preserve what is gravely 
given to the mind's custody? If you can, 
there is blame in forgetting what you are 
justly expected to remember. Consider it, 
then, as a fault, and acknowledge it as 
such. Never utter the phrase, " I have for- 
gotten," without compunction and a silent 
resolution to prevent, if possible, its recur- 
rence. 

2 



14 MISTAKES. 

Memory is not an inert mass, but a gift to 
be cultivated. It holds the key of knowledge. 
Its pen writes the history of life, deeds, words, 
motives. By its scroll, we shall be judged. 

Make a friend of Memory. Commune with 
her, ere you sleep, of the doings of the past 
day. Deepen by her aid, what should be 
treasured for the future — axioms, principles, 
holy rules of conduct. Entrust to her guardian- 
ship those stores on which the mind is to feed 
in the winter of life, when the " eye is dim, 
and the natural force abated." 

Yes, dear children, make a friend of Mem- 
ory. She will not forsake yon at last. Hope 
folds her wing when the grave opens. Her 
anchor was only made for the waier-floods of 
tinie. But Memory goes through the eternal 
gates. On her record, an unchanging doom 
is predicated. Make a friend of Memory ; for 
she is to live with us forever. 

Shall we still go on, exploring mistakes, 
and seeking the way to avoid them ? Some 
young people who would not assert that the 
negligence of habitual forgetfulness was venal, 



MISTAKES. 15 

fall into a worse error of deeming it proper for 
parents to do much for them, and they little 
or nothing for parents. On what can this 
strange theory be founded ? Where is the 
lustice of imposing new burdens, on those 
who already sustain many ? If you withhold 
help from the arm or heart, so often wearied 
for your sake, where is the gratitude ? And 
if there is neither justice nor gratitude in the 
course, what have spirits so true and lovely 
as your own, to do with it ? Ah no. I am 
sure you will repel the thought of such sel- 
fishness. 

With the light of every new morning in- 
quire, not how you can repay their care and 
guardianship, — for that is never to be repaid, 
but how you can best evince your apprecia- 
tion of the debt. It would please me, if, at 
the close of the week, ere we parted for the 
sweet Sabbath-rest, you would whisper in my 
ear, some new service that you had learned, 
to render your parents. Then I should feel 
that your scholastic and moral training were 
advancing hand in hand, and be comforted by 



16 MISTAKES. 

the conviction that your minds and hearts 
were equally healthful and prosperous. 

Mistake 8d. — That the common occupations 
of industry are vulgar, or that it is not quite 
ladylike to work with the hands. The hand 
is a very curious piece of mechanism. It was 
doubtless intended by its Maker for active and 
ingenious purposes. A man of no mean at- 
tainments has said that its structure might 
convince an infidel of the infinite wisdom of 
its Architect. 

Look abroad, and see what the hand of 
man has done, on the earth, and in its depths, 
and upon the broad sea, where white-winged 
navies ride. Had it slumbered in supineness, 
where would have been the prosperity of 

" The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces, 
The solemn temples, the great globe itself." 

Woman's hand too, in its own quiet way, 
has wrought something for the world's wel- 
fare. Why should you withdraw yours from 
contributing its part in any fitting form of in- 
dustrious occupation ? 



MISTAKES. 17 

Of Miss Edge worth, it was said by a famil- 
iar friend, — that she could do skillfully with 
her hands everything that a woman ought to 
know how to do. This versatility of knowl- 
edge and aptness for useful employment are 
peculiarly a])propriate to the simplicity that 
should prevail in a republic. 

Those are deceived in the character of a 
true lady, who suppose it comprises helpless- 
ness, or ignorance of whatever her sex ought 
to understand and perform. Believe me, inert- 
ness is not laudable, nor indolence graceful. 
Were it necessary, I could fortify the asser- 
tion by numerous examples from history, as 
well as personal observation. But I will not 
do you the injustice of supposing it possible 
for any of you to belong to that class of 
cyphers in the scale of being, whom an an- 
cient and homely epitaph thus characterizes: 

" Then if their tombstones, when they die, 
Ar n't taught to flatter and to lie, 
There's nothing more that can be said, 
Than that they've ate up all their bread. 
Drank up their drink, and gone to bed." 
2* 



J8 MISTAKES. 

Woman's mission on earth is not one of sloth 
and selfishness. It is alike her duty, her pol- 
icy, and her happiness, to abandon weak in- 
dulgence, empty display, and inglorious ease. 
A poet truly says, — 

" There is a fire-fly in the southern clime 
That shineth only when upon the wing : 
So is it with our mind, if once we rest, 
We darken." 

Clear away, then, the rubbish of false 
opinions, lest they end in wrong habits. 
Make fair sea-room, that we may sail to- 
gether, with a right reckoning, steering safe 
from shoals and quicksands, and so, through 
redeeming Mercy, find at last the haven of 
perfect rest. 



Gratitude has been beautifully styled, the 
*' me77iory of the heart.'''' Yet, it is more than 
this, more than the quiet trace, or the record- 
ing pencil. It is the living sympathy, the 
active principle, the labor to reciprocate, or 
the fervent prayer to rev^arding, omnipotent 
Love, into which that labor, feeling its own 
inadequacy, tearfully resolves itself. 

There is force in the quaint old proverb, 
" To parent, teacher, and God, all-sufficient, 
none can render equivalent." Filial gratitude 
is a debt, whose magnitude every year re- 
veals more fully, and causes to press more 
imperatively upon the tender and reflecting 
mind. But may it not sometimes happen — 
indeed, does it not too often happen, that the 
depth and preciousness of parental love is not 
comprehended till its removal ? 



20 FILIAL GRATITUDE. 

Strongly was the appreciation of Edward 
the First, of the priceless value of a father's 
affection, expressed in his time of bereave- 
ment. During his absence, on one of the 
crusades, sad tidings reached him; first, of 
the death of his eldest child, Prince John, a 
peculiarly fair and promising boy ; then, that 
the second son, Henry, the mother's darling, 
was laid in the tomb. These afflictions he 
sustained with firmness and resignation. But 
when there also came the intelligence that his 
father was dead, he yielded to such violence 
of grief, that the King of Sicily in astonish- 
ment inquired, how he who had so nobly borne 
the loss of hopeful children, should thus refuse 

be comforted for the departure of an aged 
man. And the mourner, his eyes still suf- 
fused with tears, answered, — 

" The loss of my children may be made up 
to me, by the same G-od who gave them : but 
when a man has lost a good father, it is not 
in the course of nature that God should send 
him another." 

Lord Bacon, one of the most distinguished 



FILIAL GRATITUDE. 21 

names in the galaxy of genius, literature and 
science, which any age or nation has pro- 
duced, was an instance of the long-remember- 
ing tenderness of filial gratitude. At the 
close of a splendid, yet troubled career, when 
about to renounce all worldly honors, and re- 
sign his body to the dust, the image of the 
mother who had soothed his infant woes, and 
nurtured his young mind with knowledge, re- 
turned vividly, and he wrote, — " As for my 
burial, I desire it may be in St. Michael's 
Church, near St. Albans, there was my mother 
huriedP As the scenes of life's pilgrimage 
passed in review before him, — the time-hon- 
ored pinnacles of the University, where in 
boyhood he had projected and executed works 
of learning, the thronged halls, where his fo- 
rensic eloquence had held men captive, the 
royal court, where in presence of his sovereign 
he had borne the envied honors of lord high 
chancellor and peer of the realm, the palace- 
home, where, surrounded by vassals, he had 
dwelt in affluence, — around none of these 
gorgeous pictures or pageants does his heart 



22 FILIAL GRATITUDE. 

linger. No. It turns to one lone, silent, se- 
cluded spot, — '' the7'e was my mother buried^'* 
and desires to be laid in his last slumber, by 
her side. 

Thus came the early memories of filial love, 
over the aged Barzillai the G-ileadite, amid 
the frost of his fourscore years, when the 
*' voice of singing men and singing women" 
ceased to. awaken in his dull ear a thrill of 
melody, and when for all the proffered mu- 
nificence of a grateful king, he presented only 
the touching request, — " Let thy servant be 
buried by the side of my father and my 
mother." 

The deep sense of obligation to parents, 
which often discloses itself so affectingly in 
the maturity and decline of life, should be 
cherished and made manifest, throughout all 
its stages. If they are both spared to you, 
can you too fully, value the unspeakable bless- 
ing ? Were it given you, only for an hour, to 
enter into the loneliness, the desolation of the 
orphan-heart, you might gather materials for 
a more perfect gratitude. From these blight- 



FILIAL GRATITUDE. 23 

ed, broken tendrils of hope, you would turn 
with new ardor to that affection, which, bend- 
ing over your cradle, has never failed, like the 
tree of life, to put forth healing fruits, and 
perennial blossoms. 

I wish to speak to you, more particularly, 
of the ties that bind the daughter to the 
mother. No sympathy can be more entire, 
no duties more imperative than those which 
spring from this relation. Future life, with 
its untried burdens, may reveal to you feel- 
ingly, the extent of this debt. Till then, be 
content, to take the assurance on trust, that 
you are in no danger of overpaying it. 

Let no day pass, without some acknowl- 
edgment of your indebtedness to your mater- 
nal friend. Study her unspoken wishes. Re- 
ceive her opinions with respect. Yield grace- 
fully, and with perfect sweetness, your will to 
hers. Offer your aid in her daily duties. Ac- 
quaint yourself with them, in their routine 
and detail, that you may know how to be a 
profitable assistant. Request her to commit 
to you some one department of care, and ao- 



24 FILIAL GRATITUDE. 

quit yourself in it with fidelity. "Whether it 
be the training of younger children, or the 
direction of servants, or the charge of a culi- 
nary process, or the use of the needle, or the 
nurture of plants, show by your zeal and 
cheerfulness, that, for her sake^ the employ- 
ment is delightful. 

Do not say, as I have heard some young 
ladies, when any household occupation was 
proposed, " I have a lesson to get, or must 
practise my music, and it is impossible." 
What lesson is more important than to share 
the burdens of a mother ? What music will 
make sweeter echo in the heart, than the con- 
sciousness of having been her comforter ? I 
surely would not be the advocate of neglect in 
scholastic requisitions. Oh no ! Let them be 
diligently regarded. But as the relative du- 
ties are an important part of education, the 
affectionate daughter will so apportion her 
hours, and quicken her energies, as to secure 
time for each, and all. She will learn the 
lesson, and perform the service too. 



FILIAL GRATITUDE. 25 

Hear what another has said on these sub- 
jects, in more forcible language than mine. 

*' Girls, do you know the value of your 
mother, if you have not lost her ? — Nobody 
loves you, nobody can love you, as she does. 
Be not ungrateful for this love, repay it not 
with coldness, lest a curse of coldness rest 
upon you, which you can never shake off. 
Unloved and unloving shall you live and die, 
if you do not love and honor your father and 
your mother. 

"Let the tone of voice in which they are 
addressed, be affectionate and respectful. A 
haughty answer from a child to a parent, falls 
most discordantly on the ear of every person 
who has any idea of filial duty. Grirls, be 
sure that you each win for yourselves the 
name of a dutiful daughter. So easy is it to 
win, that not one should be without it. It is 
much easier to be a good daughter, than a 
good wife, or mother. A child's duties are far 
more simple than those of a parent ; so that 
she who is a good daugher may possibly fail 
to be a good wife, or mother j but she who 



26 FILIAL GRATITUDE. 

fails in this first sacred relation, need never 
hope to fill another well. 

" Be sure then, that you are a good daugh- 
ter. It is the best preparation for every other 
station. It will be its own reward. 

" The secret that you withhold from your 
mother is a dangerous secret, and one that 
will be likely to bring you sorrow. The hours 
you spend with her you will never regret : so, 
be not disappointed, or out of humor, at being 
prevented from any pleasure which would 
take you away from her, but love her so well, 
as to give up the gayest amusement to re- 
main with her. Nothing is more beautiful 
than to see a daughter sit smilingly down by 
her mother, because she desired her aid or 
company. Go then, and kiss your mother as 
you used to do, when a child, and never grow 
too large, or too old to be happy at her side." 

In everything that concerns your mother, 
lay aside the lineaments of indifference. If 
she is wearied, or sorrowful, though you may 
not know the cause, pour out the overflowing 
riches of your sympathy. A daughter's sym- 



FILIAL GRATITUDE. 27 

pathy, with the kind nurse of her infancy, 
whose yearning heart glows with tenderness 
next only to a compassion that is divine, — 
a daughter's sympathy ! what can be more 
lovely, more fitting, more in accordance with 
truth, more congenial with angelic natures, 
jnore pleasing to God. 

Some striking instances of filial devotedness 
it has been my lot to witness, — where the 
young have voluntarily and earnestly toiled to 
aid in the support of parents, and found, in 
thus adding to their comfort, more intense 
pleasure, than from any form of self-indul- 
gence ; — or where, in tireless ministrations 
around the bed of sickness, they have striven 
to repay some portion of the debt which had 
been accumulating night and day through the 
earlier years of life. 

I think now, of a fair young creature, slen- 
der, and of peculiarly delicate formation. Yet, 
when the mother, whom she loved, was ill, 
supernatural strength seemed to come to her, 
and a nursing wisdom. Through the long, 
painful decline, she was ever at her side. 



28 FILIAL GRATITUDE. 

Every medicine was prepared and adminis- 
tered by her young hand, and in the watches 
of the night, her sleepless eye was bright, her 
pitying, yet serene brow, beamed with a sus- 
tained courage. And when the fearful ema- 
ciation and helplessness came, her subdued, 
tuneful tones breathed the same enduring love, 
that had solaced her own infancy. There 
was no thought of self. Every sympathy 
was absorbed in her mother's sufferings, every 
energy on the stretchy for their relief. 

Anxious friends insisted on sharing her fa- 
tigues. " I am not weary. No one must take 
away my privilege. How little can I do for 
her, who has done so much for me." 

The last glance of the fading eye was a 
blessing on this daughter. The last words, 
save the call of the waiting soul for its Re- 
deemer, were a bequest to her care, of the 
stricken father, the children so soon to be left 
motherless, and a feeble infant, whose hold 
upon life seemed more slight than the spider's 
web. The mournful daughter, still strong in 
holy faith, took these sacred pledges from the 



FILIAL GRATITUDE. 29 

hand of a dying mother. For her sake, she 
watched over, and sheltered the infirm babe 
until his vigorous boyhood, and grateful affec- 
tion, were her precious payment. For her 
sake, she exerted herself to be the guide of her 
father's household, the counsellor and sweet 
example of her numerous brothers and sisters, 
caring for their bodies and souls, with a con- 
stancy that knew no declension. Years fled, 
and found her faithful at her post. Filial 
love still nerved her to tread in the steps of a 
mother in heaven. If, sometimes, under the 
weight of new and great responsibilities, her 
heart faltered, she went alone to the turf- 
bound, flower-strewn grave, and knelt there, 
and prayed to Him who seeth in secret. She 
communed with her own spirit, and was still, 
and received the wisdom that she needed. 
Did there not hover around her, the unseen 
form of her sainted mother, with an angePs 
blessing ? 

My dear young friends, in whose hearts, I 
trust, is the same hallowed, filial principle, 

give it full scope and development, every day 
3* 



30 FILIAL GRATITUDE. 

of your lives. Suffer not memory to record 
on her truthful scroll, a single word or look, 
that obedience and love might not sanction. 
The frown, the deportment of indifference, the 
disregard of her wishes, who took you, at the 
gate of life, into her protecting embrace, 
though they may seem to slumber in forget- 
fulness, will awake, when the clods fall heav- 
ily upon her coffin-lid, " to bite as the scor- 
pion and sting as the adder." For, if the arm 
that fondly enwrapped you, in the sicknesses 
and fears of childhood, be weak, or weary, 
and you heed it not, if the bosom that drew 
your infant lip into its sanctuary, till it ceased 
to moan, faint, for want of sympathy, and 
you refresh it not ; if the form that bent 
over your cradle-dream, in the supplication of 
love, shudder from the world's neglect, or 
dreariness, and you cast no garment over it, 
— beware of the judgment, — where those who 
have slighted the needs of even the unknown, 
are condemned. 

The extent, and imperishable nature of a 
mother's love, cannot be told in language. 



FILIAL GRATITUDE. 31 

The depths may not swallow it up, nor the 
floods drown it. It springs up with the first 
sigh of the new-born, and wanes not till the 
death-pang. It takes new forms of action, as 
new conditions arise, but it never swerves, 
never changes. Oh, my sweet young friends, 
more dear to me by every day's intercourse, 
and instruction, next to G-od, see that you 
love your mother. 



Intial Stitnrntirat 

Did I hear you inquiring, my sweet pupils, 
how you could best render yourselves agree- 
able to each other, and to those with whom 
you might in future associate ? — It was a 
rational inquiry, and need not pre-suppose 
any mixture of vanity ; for it is both a fitting 
accomplishment, and a duty, for our sex to 
please, that they may do good. 

Now, how are you to become pleasing? 
Begin by being amiable. Lay self aside, and 
study how to cheer, oblige, or advance others. 
If you are supposed to have any claim to dis- 
tinction either in personal appearance, dress, 
talents, or position, dismiss it from your 
thoughts. Regard all the usages of politeness, 
all the courtesies of refined society, but let 
them sit easy on you. " In simple manners 



SOCIAL INTERCOURSE. 33 

all the secret lies," — some wise man has said. 
If you will observe those who most excel in 
ease and gentleness of deportment, as opposed 
to affectation, forwardness and efforts to at- 
tract attention, you will concur in the truth 
of his remark. 

While on the subject of manners, I would 
earnestly enforce respect to all your superiors ; 
especially to those who wear the crown of 
honorable age. Consider yourselves charge- 
able with a culpable omission, if you have 
failed to pay marked attention, and deference, 
to the oldest persons in company. This is not 
merely an evidence of good-breeding, but of 
obedience to the divine command, to " rise up 
before the hoary head, and honor the face of 
the old man." 

Strangers, or any person who may appear 
to be overlooked or neglected, I am sure you 
will delight to seek out, and put at ease, by 
your own pleasant manners, and smiling 
countenance. Be careful to notice children. 
Kind attentions cause their little hearts to 
overflow with pleasure. Even now, I vividly 



34 SOCIAL INTERCOURSE. 

cherish the grateful remembrance of one, who 
seeing me embarrassed, when quite young, in 
a large, ceremonious circle, took pains to cross 
the room, and seat herself at my side, and by 
her kind and courteous attentions, relieved me 
from a load of almost insupportable diffidence. 
There was true benevolence in such an action, 
and social intercourse is fruitful in opportu- 
nities for similar illustrations of that virtue. 

To the conversation of the wise and intelli- 
gent, good manners will prompt a marked and 
silent attention. This from the young is a 
proper and acceptable homage. You will lis- 
ten to their words from a twofold motive, — to 
gain instruction, and to do honor. It has 
been sometimes said, that in a republic, the 
rules of courtesy, and delicate forms of polite- 
ness, are too prone to be overlooked. It has 
been asserted by foreigners, that the sentiment 
of respect is wanting in the American people. 
If this be true, our system of education is in 
fault. For every character is deficient, and 
ill-balanced, which has not been trained up to 
show reverence where it is due. Beloved 



SOCIAL INTERCOURSE. 35 

friends,' let no such charge be justly made 
against you. 

Some sources of attraction can be possessed 
but by few. The charms of beauty, and the 
distinctions of wealth, are not at the disposal 
of the multitude. But good manners are open 
to the attainment of all, who have the good 
feehng to cultivate them. They are a per- 
petual letter of recommendation, " seen, and 
read of all men." 

One successful method of pleasing in so- 
ciety, is to be happy yourselves. Do you ask 
what shall aid you, in being always happy ? 
Regulate your thoughts. They are the germs 
of action, and of feeling. If their growth 
is pure and healthful, their blossom will be 
a perennial happiness. 

Shall I give you two good seed-thoughts ? 
One is, — when you go into society, leave ''self 
behind. A little girl said, — " Mother, I have 
learned how to be happy. I shall always be so 
now." 

" How is that, my daughter ?" 

" By never caring anything about myself, 



36 SOCIAL INTERCOURSE. 

and always trying to make everybody else 
happy." 

The child had planted the true seed of hap- 
piness. 

Around a bright, wintry fire, a cheerful 
fanmily were seated. The time drew near for 
the younger members of the circle to retire 
to rest. Still they lingered, for the father con- 
tinued to indulge them in pleasant discourse. 
At length, as they came one by one for the 
parting kiss, he asked what would make them 
the most happy. Each had in imagination 
some sparkling image of childhood bliss, 
which was earnestly illustrated, either as a 
hope, or a possession. But one of the most 
thoughtful of the train, a gentle boy, said, 

" I think I feel the happiest, when I make 
others happy." 

''^You are right, my son. Our dear Sa- 
viour hath told us, — ' It is more blessed to 
give than to receive.' " 

A man of erudition and much experience in 
the adversities of life, was once asked how he 
had acquired the power of being ever serene. 



SOCIAL INTERCOURSE. 37 

and happy. He replied, — '' Only by the right 
use of my eyes. — "Wherever I am, I look first 
to heaven, and remember that my great busi- 
ness here is to get there. Next, I look down 
to the earth, and call to mind how small a 
space I shall soon fill in it. Then, I look 
abroad among men, and see what multitudes 
are less happy than myself. Thus I learn 
where true happiness is placed, where all my 
cares must end, and what reason I have to be 
continually thankful. To live in this spirit, is 
to be always happy." 

Here is my second seed-thought, live in love. 
— You, who were received at the gate of life, 
in all your helplessness, by love, cherished on 
its bosom, rocked in its cradle, led by its 
hand, till your feet were able to walk, whose 
first infant articulations were of its shaping, 
whose earliest prayers were learned from its 
lips, — be not false to its lessons, or forgetful 
to breathe its spirit into other hearts. 

Love wrote the first letter in your alphabet 
of life. Let it write the last ; that you may 
enter a clime of perfect love, and feel at home 
among seraphs. 



My dear daughters, I would have you true 
patriots. Methinks, I see your beautiful heads 
bending towards me, with increased and won- 
dering attention, as if you doubted whether 
your ear had correctly interpreted. 

Patriots, I said, true patriots. Now, by the 
sparkling of your eyes, and the slight twinkle 
of ridicule lingering in their glance, your 
thoughts are roaming among the exploits of 
Semiramis and Boadicea, of the heroine who 
dwelt under the palm-trees of Mount Ephraim, 
or of her who ventured forth, under the veil 
of midnight, to the camp of Holofernes. You 
deem me a little bewildered in my principle 
of adaptation, this morning. We will set that 
matter right. 

Queens, and warrior-women, I would not 
have you, if I could. But we have a noble 



PATRIOTISM. 39 

country, of vast extent and unfathomed re- 
sources. Its shores stretch from ocean to 
ocean, its mountains tower in majesty, its 
broad streams are the highways of commerce, 
its cities teem with inhabitants, its villages 
are instinct with busy life, its solitary places 
blossom like the rose. The oppressed and the 
exile from every clime find here a refuge. In 
our broad green wilds, like the passenger bird 
they rest, and build their nests, and rear their 
young, with none to make them afraid. Our 
sails whiten every sea, and among the nations 
of the earth, we are held in honor. Peace, 
and equal laws, and the religion of Jesus 
Christ, are our true glory. Among our forest- 
settlements the sacred church-spire springs 
up, pointing heavenward, and by its side, as 
an humbler sister, the school beckoneth every 
little one from its mother's arms. Here wo- 
man fears no Moslem interdict, no feudal tyr- 
anny. She is free to gather and to store the 
fruits of knowledge, to twine the garlands of 
love, to follow the footsteps of her Saviour, to 
fulfil an angelic benevolence. 



40 PATRIOTISM. 

Dear and glorious native land ! You feel 
it a privilege to have been born within her 
limits. You bless the memory of the fathers, 
who sustained toil and peril, that she might 
pass from colonial subjugation to a seat among 
the nations. You have the amor patrise. So, 
we have joined issue. Let us then see, how 
you may best show your true patriotism. 

The first step for a young female patriot, is 
to know her own sphere, and to keep it. To 
the prosperity of every great work, division of 
labor is essential. In a civilized and chris- 
tianized community, like our own, the depart- 
ments of the sexes are clearly defined. The 
toils, the perils, the stormy honors of the outer 
life, devolve on one ; — the cares, the burdens, 
the exquisite harmonies of the inner life, are 
reserved for the other. In the structure both 
of frame and mind, there is supposed to be an 
adaptation to their peculiar lot, by Him who 
cannot err, the " Former of our bodies and the 
Father of our spirits." 

Strange and peculiar occasions have de- 
manded and aroused in the weaker sex, the 



PATRIOTISM. 41 

energy and boldness of the other. But for 
either to invade the province not allotted to 
them, is their own loss, and a detriment to the 
interests of society. There are those, who, in 
modern times, have harangued and clamored 
for what they have been pleased to call the 
" rights of looman,''^ supposing that they 
were doing her a service. But these rights 
seem ill-defined, and if conceded, must be at 
an expense of the forfeiture of better things, 
and a more rational happiness. If the polit- 
ical arena were opened to her ambition, might 
not its unhallowed strife incite her to overlook 
congenial duties, and to leave the sweet home- 
guardianship to desolation ? 

Observe the beautiful order of the heavenly 
bodies. The satellites do not disturb the orbit 
of the primaries, nor the primaries rush after 
the comets. Each in its rotation and minis- 
try obeys the law of the Creator, — a law as 
wise in the moral, as in the natural world, 
among sentient beings, as among the watch- 
ing stars. 

If then, the first step in true patriotism, 
4* 



42 PATRIOTISM. 

my loved listeners, is to keep your own sphere, 
the second is, to adorn it. 

Are you a daughter ? 

Are you a sister ? 

Are you a pupil ? 

"Whatever appertains to each of these im- 
portant departments, study seriously, under- 
stand thoroughly, and perform conscientiously. 
And as you may hereafter enter the more re- 
sponsible stations of a housekeeper, a wife, and 
a mother, cultivate the germ of these future, 
more complex duties, by fidelity in the dis- 
charge of those that, at present, appertain to 
you. 

I am convinced that you desire and deter- 
mine to be true patriots. It behooves you, 
therefore, to have now a well-furnished mind, 
and hereafter, a well-ordered home. These 
are your just obligations, your fitting acknowl- 
edgments, for the nurture of knowledge, the 
participation in social rights, the shelter of 
laws by which the helpless are safe, the com- 
fort of a religion through which the weak are 
strong. 



PATRIOTISM. 43 

And may you so faithfully learn, and so 
diligently set forth all the precepts of true 
loyalty here, as to be found worthy to become 
at last, the denizens of a " better country, that 
is, an heavenly." 



Fitly-spoken loords I What are they ? 
Their preciousness has been compared to " ap- 
ples of gold in pictures of silver," or as some 
translations render it, golden oranges in bas- 
kets of wrought silver, where the rich hue of 
the fragrant fruit is heightened by the beauty 
of its vase. Let us inquire into the nature of 
those words, which the wise monarch of Is- 
rael has thus graphically illustrated. 

And first, with regard to their garniture, 
fitness of speech. So much of our time is 
devoted to oral intercourse, that it is no slight 
object of education to regulate, and render it 
effective. It is expected of a well-trained 
lady, that she should converse both agreeably 
and usefully; and you, my young friends, wiU 
desire in this, as in other accomplishments, to 



FITLY-SPOKEN WORDS. 45 

give pleasure, in order to do good. On the 
face of the subject, a clear enunciation is 
essential. It is what the Roman orator said 
of action, " the first, the second, the third 
thing." Beauty of sentiment avails little if 
marred by an indistinct utterance. Thought 
loses its weight, when the words glide trip- 
pingly over the tongue. The upright moralist 
who classed the " speaking so low as not to 
be heard, among minor immoralities," would 
find but too many in our own generation, to 
cite before her tribunal. In what you have 
to say, do not deprive a single syllable of its 
due sound. It is a species of injustice, both to 
the word, and its hearer. To listen, and lose 
a part, is a painful tax on the nervous sys- 
tem. If you have the gift of an unstammer- 
ing tongue, do not perplex your friends by 
swallowing a portion of what you seem to ad- 
dress to their ears. Suffer the lips and teeth 
to have a share in modifying sound, rather 
than to let it gurgle pitifully in the depths of 
the throat, or be forced unnaturally through 
the nasal organs. It has been asserted by 



46 FITLY-SPOKEN WORDS. 

some satirical foreigners, that one mode of 
distinguishing an American, was by his speak- 
ing through the nose. I trust this is a mis- 
take ; still it will do no harm to guard the 
point, in our own case. A confused utterance 
is never graceful, and often a fruitful source 
of misconstruction . There can be little need 
of multiplying arguments, in proof of what 
must be so obvious to yourselves. Still, I 
would fain commend strongly to you the beau- 
tiful attainment of a fine elocution, as what I 
desire each one of you, my dear young friends, 
assiduously to cultivate. 

It seems scarcely necessary to caution those 
so accustomed to the usages of well-bred so- 
ciety, against interrupting others in discourse. 
Yet I doubt not, you may have been often an- 
noyed by the bursting in of rude, impatient 
voices, upon the pleasant interchange of 
thought. Job's messengers of evil tidings, 
had that bad habit, — " while one was yet 
speaking, there came also another, and said.'* 
Those whose comprehension has been thus 
perplexed, should avoid inflicting the same 



FITLY-SPOKEN WORDS. 47 

inconvenience on their friends. It is an in- 
fraction of the privilege of conversation, w^hich 
impUes reciprocity. It cannot therefore be 
with propriety a lectureship, where some are 
installed to set forth their favorite subjects, 
and others to listen with a mouse-like observ- 
ance. Neither is it a piratical enterprise, to 
snatch on this side, and on that ; nor the 
fierce monopoly of high-sounding lungs, find- 
ing bliss in their own selfish exercise ; nor a 
hubbub of unmeaning vociferations, where 
truth enters only to be trodden down ; but the 
quiet intercourse of minds, to which G-od has 
given reason, love of knowledge, kindred sym- 
pathies, and the vehicle of language, that 
they may advance mutual happiness and im- 
provement. 

Aim to clothe your thoughts in the best 
language. By this, I do not, of course, mean 
an ostentatious style, or those efforts after 
elegance which reject simplicity. The so- 
ciety of the highly educated, and the art of 
listening, are a profitable regimen for the 
young. She who would converse well, must 



48 FITLY-SPOKEN WORDS. 

learn to listen ; as he who would wisely rule, 
must first know how to obey. Reflect ere 
you speak, whether what you are about to 
utter is worth saying. This will chasten an 
undue fluency, and hold in check the ten- 
dency to gossiping — that stigma so long af- 
fixed to the social intercourse of the fair sex. 
In olden times, when from a more limited 
education than we enjoy, their range of sub- 
jects was narrower, and the fashions of dress 
and foibles of character fell more intensely 
under their observation, this fault might have 
been more readily forgiven. 

Speak in sweet tones. It seems expected 
of the young and amiable, that their voice 
should be an echo of the soul's harmony. I 
think now of one, whose varied intonations 
are like rich music, long to be remembered. 
And she always speaks with a smile. Would 
that each one of you, would cultivate these 
attractions. The habit might be easily form- 
ed, now, in your forming season. Melody of 
voice, and the bright beaming forth of a radi- 
ant spirit, are the natural accompaniments of 



FITLY-SPOKEN WORDS. 49 

words fitly spoken. They give the last, e^^- 
quisite polish to that '' basket of wrought sil- 
ver," in which the ripened fruits of thought 
are beautifully arranged. 

Now, what are those worcls^ whose rich 
meaning renders them worthy of such care in 
presentation ? Surely, they must be engines 
of power. " How forcible are right words,'* 
exclaimed the Patriarch to whom we have al- 
ready referred, when to his other sufferings 
were added the ill-chosen discussions of those 
friends, to the " opening of whose lips," he 
had looked for consolation. 

Suppose, for the sake of conciseness, we di- 
vide our fitly-spoken words into three classes : 
those that give pleasure, those that impart in- 
struction, and those that comfort sorrow. 

1. "Words that give pleasure. Here, the 
gentle expressions of kindness and affection 
deserve a prominent place. Fail not to use 
them, where they are justly due. They aid 
in the cultivation of the heart. Taciturnity, 
or reserve to their promptings, may settle into 
coldness of character. Spare not to tell those 



50 FITLY-SPOKEN WORDS. 

•^ho are bound to you by kindred blood, 
friendship, or gratitude, how tenderly you 
love them. The sweetness of domestic inter- 
course, depends much on the frank communi- 
cation of affectionate feeling. 

Encouragement of those who are striving 
to establish right habits, or overcome wrong 
dispositions, will give scope for many pleasant 
words. Warm appreciation of the good deeds 
of your acquaintance, may be so judiciously 
expressed as not to hurt their delicacy, Some 
minds are so prone to dejection, and so defi- 
cient in proper self-esteem, that frequent allu- 
sion to their virtues is medicinal, and an 
incentive to perseverance, and higher attain- 
ments in excellence. Yet avoid the dialect of 
flattery. Like all departures from rectitude, 
it will weaken confidence in your veracity. 
It is the false coin of conversation, a counter- 
feit readily detected. Keep truthfulness, as 
well as gentleness, ever in view, and regard 
the apostolic precept, " to please for edifi- 
caiionP 

2. Words that convey instruction. What a 



FITLY-SPOKEN WORDS. 51 

wide field here opens before you. All who 
have less education than yourselves, may be 
considered in some degree, as your pupils. 
Whoever is desirous of knowledge, or unac- 
quainted with its benefits, or enslaved by in- 
correct habits, or unconvinced of the truths of 
our holy religion, or unsustained by its hopes, 
may be the better for your teachings. Yet 
avoid display, and dogmatical assertions, and 
like the bee, singing at her work, hide your 
precepts in honey. Use judgment, and knowl- 
edge of human nature, in selecting the infor- 
mation that you impart. The rules of logic, 
or the axioms of philosophy, would be scarcely 
intelligible to an untrained intellect. I knew 
a studious boy, who persisted in reading his 
lessons aloud, every evening, to an aged col- 
ored servant-woman. If wearied with the 
labors of the day, she fell asleep, he elevated 
his voice to a higher key ; for " I am deter- 
mined," said he, '^ to improve her mind." 
Probably all the advantage derived from this 
exercise of classic lore, was his own. Per- 
haps, the dreams of the heavy sleeper were 



§2 FITLY-SFOKEN WORDS. 

scarcely broken, but his perseverance might 
have found a surer place in the casket of 
memory, for what he desired to commit there. 

Knowledge grows, by imparting it, as the 
physical powers, through exercise, gather 
strength. If the teachers of the intellectual 
branches share liberally the benefits they com- 
municate to others, in the accumulation of 
mental treasure, and the increase of suggest- 
ive thought, will not those, also, who labor to 
impress moral and religious precepts, deepen 
within themselves, the energies of a pure and 
consistent example ? 

3. Words that soothe sorrow. Here, our sex 
ought to be proficients. They are expected to 
be comforters. Their tender sympathies are 
easily awakened, and by the circumstances of 
their lot in life, kept in frequent exercise. 
Exert yourselves, therefore, to comfort, accord- 
ing to your ability, all who may come within 
your sphere of action. Sickness, poverty, and 
grief, with their infinite variations, will sur- 
round you, as you walk the path of probation. 
" Let the moving of your lips" assuage their 



FITLY-SPOKEN WORDS. 53 

pain. Sympathy, though it may not remove 
the load, gives strength to bear it. Soothe the 
wailing infant, and the disappointed child, 
whose troubles are not the less keenly felt, be- 
cause to us they may seem as trifles. 

The trials of your friends and companions, 
I have already seen that you count as your 
own. In their deeper adversities, have ever 
ready for them, in the dialect of love, that 
best remedy for sorrow, perfect reconcilement 
to the Ruling Hand. Into their stricken hearts, 
pour from your own, confidence in the wis- 
dom of Omnipotence, — trust in its goodness, 
— thankfulness for the discipline of its fatherly 
school, — assurance that what is dark and mys- 
terious here, shall be revealed in the Land 
without a cloud, where it shall be brightly 
seen with angel-ken, how *' all things did 
work together for good, to those who loved 
God." 

Still there are occasions in human life, 

where silence is more eloquent than speech. 

If you are observant, you will perceive that in 

some situations, the sound of the human voioe 
5* 



54 FITLY-SrOKEN WORDS. 

is arrogant and vain. It is so, where Nature 
discloses her majesty, — on the heights of solemn 
mountains, — amid the thunder of the fathom- 
less, storm-wrought ocean, or in the presence 
of the never-resting, glorious Niagara. 

There is also a depth of human sorrow, 
where silence is wisdom. Frail man strug- 
gling against the strong surge of adversity, in- 
spires a sensation of that awe which sublimity 
produces. Classic polytheism asserted that 
the sight was worthy of the admiration of her 
deities. 

" To me, and to the state of my great grief 
Let kings do homage," 

said the desolate mother of the murdered 
Arthur. You will doubtless come in contact 
with instances of severe bereavement where 
words are inadequate. They are even felt to 
be hazardous. They may touch some chord 
whose vibration is agony. Then, the tear of 
silent sympathy, the meek bowing down by 
the side of the smitten, as if to take a part of 



FITLY-SPOKEN WORDS. 65 

the burden that crushes them, is the dialect 
of true feeling. 

There are depths in devotion, where the 
voiceless thought alone, aspires to communion 
with its Maker. The humbled soul realizes 
that " He is in His holy temple, and keeps 
silence before Him." Language, convinced of 
its poverty, submissively withdraws, or hides 
its face in the lap of silence. 

Beautiful silence I that hast a place in 
heaven, among the harps that know no dis- 
sonance. Far more fitting is it that thou 
shouldst dwell with us, so often mistaken in 
our best ministries of speech, and discordant 
in our highest melodies. 

We have considered the fitness of speech ; 
let us not overlook the beauty of well-timed 
silence. Its holy hush, like pauses in music, 
heightens the succeeding harmony. Like 
shades in a picture, it illustrates the design. 
Like repose to the toil-worn, it gives energy 
for future action. The long, undeclining day 
of the arctic regions, is said 4o be oppressive 
to the nerves. Men yearn for the sober twi- 



56 FITLY-SPOKEN WORDS. 

light, to temper its intense brightness, and for 
the shadow of the deep night, lulling weari- 
ness to repose. 

Learn, therefore, when to be silent, as well 
as how to speak. Ulysses was called the most 
•eloquent, and the most silent of men. I would 
have you talk well^ but not talk always. And 
since by our words, as well as our deeds, we 
are to be judged, may right words, fitly- 
spoken, and the holy pauses of well-timed 
silence, mingle bright memories with your 
crown of rejoicing, at the last great day. 



CrratmBiit nf tljB (grring* 

The unfolding drama of life will acquaint 
you with characters of various dispositions 
and habitudes. It becomes, therefore, a grave 
inquiry, how to deport yourselves, on all occa- 
sions, with the proprieties of a pure and wo- 
manly nature. When you meet those who 
have fallen into errors which you have escaped, 
or to which you may have had no tendency, 
how shall they be treated ? Probably, the 
first impulse of a mind that has preserved its 
own integrity would be avoidance, and the 
reserve of offended virtue. 

Perseverance in evil tempers, or a disagree- 
able deportment, sometimes receive less for- 
bearance, than more flagrant offences. These 
are the natural results of continuance in error, 
the bitter fruits of permitted, and indulged 



58 TREATMENT OF THE ERRING. 

sin. We pity the sufferer from physical ills — 
should we not commiserate those who inter- 
nally bear the scourge of conscience, and are at 
variance with themselves, and with all man- 
kind ? Is ^here any deeper malady than the 
eating cancer of self-reproach — the paralysis 
of the soul ? The misery of an unruled, way- 
ward spirit, who can compute ? Who hath 
descended into its depths, to count the scor- 
pion-lashes of remorse, to see the writhings of 
a heart too proud to yield, to confess, or to im- 
plore sympathy ? Shall we add a new gall- 
drop ? another shade of darkness, where the 
light of G-od's countenance, is already with- 
drawn ? 

Still, the question recurs, how shall the err- 
ing be treated ? Before answering it, let us 
review our own position. Have we never 
wandered from duty, perplexed our guides, 
disturbed our conscience, offended our Father 
in Heaven ? If we have, there should be pity 
for those, who having been less carefully train- 
ed, or more strongly tempted, fell, where we 
were enabled to stand firm. How forcible on 



TREATMENT OF THE ERRING. 59 

this point, is a passage from one of our finest 
writers, — 

" Whatever I have seen of the world, or 
known of the history of mankind, teaches me 
to look on the errors of others in sorrow, not 
in anger. When I take the history of but one 
poor heart, that has sinned and suffered, when 
I represent to myself the struggles and temp- 
tations through which it has passed, the vicis- 
situdes of hope and fear, the pressure of want, 
the desertion of friends, the scorn of a world 
that hath Kttle charity, the desolation of the 
mind's sanctuary, the threatening voices with- 
in it, health gone, happiness gone, perhaps 
even hope, that remains the longest, gone, I 
would fain lay the erring soul of my fellow- 
being in His hand from whom it came." 

Do I hear you ask, shall we then take evil 
persons for our associates ? Oh no ! Unless 
you were the possessor of an unfaltering good- 
ness, an infallible wisdom, a superhuman 
strength. Not while you are the partaker of 
an infirm nature, choose companionship with 
the sinful, and hope to remain pure. But 



60 TREATMENT OF THE ERRING, 

when your lot leads you near them, or makes 
it proper that you should utter the counsels or 
admonitions of virtue, forget not the linea- 
ments of kindness. How many lapses into 
crime, or deepened shades of obduracy may be 
traced to the severity of the untempted, or the 
pride of the unfallen, can never be made 
manifest till that day when the secrets of all 
hearts shall be revealed. For among the rul- 
ing causes of vice, are not alone the countless 
temptations that assault the unwary, the bias 
of a wrong education, the absence of right 
counsel, and the influence of bad example, but 
the scorn of virtue. Yea, the scoi'n of virtue. 
It hath stifled in the relenting heart, the faint 
sigh of reformation, and blighted the good 
seed lingering in the stony ground that might 
else have sprung up, though there was not 
^' much deepness of earth." 

*' I do not care to leave my prison," said 
one who had erred, and been punished — 
" My term is out, but wherefore should I 
leave the prison ? Everywhere will be the 
cold look, and the pointing finger. Who will 



TREATMENT OF THE ERRING. 61 

smile on me ? who will welcome me back to 
the firm ground from whence I fell ? The 
scorn of the world is worse than the solitude 
of the prison." 

Would that I could bring before you, as 
vividly as it gleams in my own remembrance, 
the image of the late benevolent Mrs. Fry, en- 
tering the dreary cells of Newgate. A class 
of female convicts awaited her there. Some 
were large and brawny, with coarse faces, 
bronzed by guilt and hardship. Some, with 
sharpened features, and quick, stealthy glances, 
surveyed us, two or three ladies, who, by 
permission of the Directors, were seated near. 
Methought they earnestly scanned those por- 
tions of apparel, or appendages of ornament, 
to which the hand of a thief would have been 
habitually attracted. A few were young, and 
of not unpleasant physiognomy, girls whose 
mistresses, it was said, had given them up to 
the stern infliction of justice, for purloining 
some slight article from the wardrobe or 
household. 

It was acutely painful, to contemplate this 
6 



G2 TREATMENT OF THE ERRING. 

group. The proximity of crime is repulsive, 
and in some degree, fearful. We felt sensible 
relief, when Mrs. Fry, who held such power 
over those depraved and unfortunate beings, 
appeared. She was tall, of a plain counte- 
nance, and in the neat garb of her sect, the 
Friends. Every movement was in the quiet 
majesty of goodness. As if a tutelary spirit 
had descended among them, every fierce eye 
was fixed and softened. She read in the 
sweetest, most distinct enunciation, a portion 
of Scripture, and knelt with them in prayer. 
The peculiar melody of her tones fell on their 
tossing, turbid spirits, with tranquillizing 
power, as if an echo of His divine compas- 
sion, who said to the storm-wrought billows, 
" Peace ! be still." 

This was her last meeting with the class, 
before their transportation to Botany Bay, and 
was probably marked with an unusual degree 
of feeling. Earnestly, yet calmly she coun- 
selled them, recapitulating and enforcing rules 
of duty and inducements to lead a new life. 
She harrowed up their minds, by no allusion 



TREATMENT OF THE ERRING. 63 

to past offences. She denounced no maledic- 
tion. She besought them by the meekness 
and gentleness of Christ. She spoke of the 
trials that awaited them, on their long voyage 
in the convict-ship, and their lot of servitude 
in a foreign clime ; and exhorted them to per- 
severe in the good resolutions they had formed, 
for their souls' sake, and for her sake, who in 
teaching them had become more and more 
their souls' friend. Every heart was bowed 
before her. Over the most rugged faces gush- 
ed floods of grief and penitence. Those who 
might have opposed to severity the rigidity of 
iron, melted under her soft touches like snow 
to the sunbeam. Then I felt how glorious 
was this imitation of the redeeming love that 
came to seek, and to save, that which was 
lost. Then I realized, that the purest natures 
are most pitiful ; and that the mission of wo- 
man was not to frown on guilt, but to upHft, 
and persuade it to penitence. 

Pure-minded and kind-hearted beings, my 
cherished pupils, whom every day I love more, 
because every day discloses some new excel- 



64 TREATMENT OF THE ERRING. 

lence worthy of love, T do not summon you to 
such efforts of self-denying philanthropy. It 
may not fall within the sphere of your duty, 
to utter a warning voice in the cell of the in- 
carcerated, but along your quiet pathway, 
beset as it will be by forms of error and in- 
firmity, you can pity and pray for those who 
are still prisoners of hope. I am sure that 
you would not willingly aid the dominion of 
evil, in a world on which you are newly enter- 
ing, nor plunge deeper in the dark waters of 
perdition those whose feet have swerved upon 
slippery places. 

Learn therefore the Christian alchymy that 
separates the sin from the sinner. With the 
first make no compromise. Think, and speak 
of it, with utter reprobation. For the latter, 
remember His patience, who would not " break 
the bruised reed, or quench the smoking flax." 

Fear not that the kind word, or the encour- 
aging smile to the erring, will sully your own 
purity. Let me again repeat, that it is not 
by perilling your own safety, or by partaking 
the infection, that your sympathies should 



TREATMENT OF THE ERRING. 65 

operate, but like the wise and benevolent 
physician, who strives to rescue a fellow-crea- 
ture from the disease that he dreads and dep- 
recates. 

Be not content with an inert theory, with 
the sound of words, admitting that all have 
sinned, and gone out of the way : but look on 
the wanderer as on a sheep that hath strayed, 
and speak tenderly of the green pastures, and 
the still waters, and the waiting Shepherd to 
whom it may return. 

Say not haughtily, you have forfeited your 

place in the fold. " In our Father's House 

are many mansions." Say not, you are bitten 

by the serpent, and must forever die. For 

''there is balm in Gilead, and a Physician 

there." 

6* 



I WISH to introduce to you one whom you 
would have loved, and who also would have 
loved you, for her heart was full of tenderness, 
and admiration for all that is beautiful and 
good. She was the most intimate companion 
of my early years, and filled in my heart the 
place that I think would have been assigned 
to a sister, had a sister been given me. 

Ann Maria Hyde was a native of Norwich, 
Connecticut, and born on the 1st of March, 
1792. Her parents filled a highly respectable 
station, and she was nurtured with every care 
that tenderness could prompt, or wealth be- 
stow. She had no brother, and her sister be 
ing sixteen years older than herself, and early 
transplanted by marriage to another home, 
she was reared with much of that idolatry of 
love, which is wont to centre on an only child. 



SKETCH OF AN EARLY FRIEND. 67 

Still, she was not injured by indulgence, but 
parental solicitude was repaid by the unfold- 
ing of sweet affections, and a brilliant intellect. 
Her gentleness of nature breathed upon all 
around, even upon the house-dug and the cat ; 
the horse who daily drew her, seemed to raise 
his ear as if listening to her kind epithets, 
and she grieved to see even a reptile troubled. 
At an age when most children are occupied 
with the simple modifications of the alphabet, 
she was deriving entertainment from books ; 
and though not indifferent to sports, and to 
intercourse with her dolls, found pleasure in 
solitary musing and in serious thought. In 
the historical and poetical portions of the 
Bible she especially delighted, and without 
direction from others, chose them for frequent 
perusal. "When her tiny hands were too weak 
to manage a large volume of the Scriptures, 
she would pass hours stretched on the carpet, 
her little bright face bowed over its pages 
with intense attention, and sometimes ear- 
nestly enunciating passages that struck her 
ear, or affected her feelings. 



68 SKETCH OF AN EARLY FRIEND. 

What she thus treasured in her memory, it 
was also perceived that she correctly applied. 
Being once severely sick, while a very young 
child, she said, " I should be willing to die 
now, if it was not for my dear friends. But 
the Bible says, ' Whoso loveth father or 
mother more than me, is not worthy of me.' " 

Fondness for knowledge led her to love 
school, and her instructors. She distinguish- 
ed herself from her earliest initiation, by obe- 
dience to their rules, and a scrupulous regard 
to their slightest wishes. As she grew older 
the accuracy and clearness of her recitations 
were conspicuous, the classic style of her 
written thoughts, and a propriety of demeanor 
which no evil example could overcome, or en- 
snare. At twelve, she was well grounded in 
the solid branches pursued at the higher sem- 
inaries ; though her taste inclined to philosoph- 
ical and historical studies, which she con- 
tinued to prefer throughout life. 

At the age of fourteen she left school, and 
became the companion of her parents, and a 
willing assistant in domestic cares. Her love 



SKETCH OF AN EARLY FRIEND. 69 

of nature more fully expanded, and the rural 
and romantic scenery of her neighborhood 
and native city became exceedingly dear. To 
an extensive course of reading, and frequent 
composition, a portion of her time was de- 
voted ; and her father, whose fine mind had 
been disciplined by the theory and practice of 
jurisprudence, was gratified by her intellect- 
ual progress, while her mother was equally 
cheered by her ready participation in the de- 
tails and mysteries of nice housekeeping. 

In the shrinking delicacy of her nature, 
and her favorite themes of contemplation, the 
poetic temperament might be easily discerned ; 
and this, like all her other developments, was 
marked by precocity. One of her earliest 
effusions, written at the age of nine years, 
descriptive of the beauty of an infant nephew, 
evinced such harmony of numbers, that it 
was sent by a relative to the columns of a 
periodical. This was entirely unknown to 
herself, and when it was shown her in print, 
she burst into a flood of tears. Throughout 
her life, she continued occasionally to solace 



70 SKETCH OF AN EARLY FRIEND. 

herself with the composition both of poetry 
and prose ; and after her death, a volume of 
selections from both was made, by the friend 
in whom she most confided. 

But the beauty of her character was more 
fully drawn out by adversity. She had num- 
bered eighteen years, ere the shadow of a 
cloud had darkened her horizon. Then, the 
loss of the husband of her only sister at sea, 
with the ship that he commanded, and the en- 
tire reverse of fortune that ensued to his 
family, and extended in some measure to her 
parents, called forth her deep and painful sym- 
pathies. With them, also, sprang up a noble 
principle, the desire by her own exertions to 
assist the mourning wddow and her two father- 
less children. 

To engage, with this view, in the work of 
education became her desire. "With surprise, 
her parents listened to her plans, and at 
length accorded their consent. With still 
greater surprise did the friends who knew her 
extreme diffidence, and her reluctance to leave 
home, even for a night, see the energy with 



SKETCH OF AN EARLY FRIEND. 71 

which she prepared to go to a distant part of 
the State, among entire strangers, to acquire 
a knowledge of painting, embroidery in silks, 
and some other accomplishments, which were 
then deemed necessary in a teacher of young 
ladies. It was the depth of a severe winter, 
when she entered the stage-coach for her 
journey, and became the member of a school, 
where, with the exception of one companion, 
she had never seen a face before. There, for 
several months, she, who had seldom left her 
own gates in unpleasant weather without the 
shelter of a carriage, took her daily long 
walks to school, regardless of storm or obsta- 
cle, and pursued while there, with the most 
undeviating perseverance, the acquisitions that 
were to fit her for future toil. Anxious that 
not a moment should be lost, she might be 
seen during the long evenings with her com- 
panions, plying the needle, by the parlor-fire 
of her boarding-house, or in her own little 
chamber, occupied with her journal, or those 
beautifully written letters that sustained 
the spirits of the loved ones at home, after 



72 SKETCH OF AN EARLY FP^END. 

whom her heart yearned, as a newly-weaned 

child. 

At her return home, she assumed the re- 
sponsible office of an instructor of young ladies, 
some of whom were older than herself. How 
faithfully and patientJy she labored for their 
good, and how meekly she resigned the in- 
dulgences of the paternal mansion, that she 
might superintend the pupils who were board- 
ers with her sister, and under whose roof the 
school was conducted, I can bear witness, for 
side by side we shared the same cares and the 
same enjoyments. At the twilight hour, 
when our cherished flock had dispersed, we 
discoursed together of each individual, devis- 
ing plans for their improvement, or happiness, 
until the shadows deepened into darkness. 
Light seemed the labors that were thus di- 
vided. Eminently was her heart formed for 
friendship. Tender sympathy, and inviolable 
constancy were parts of her nature. These 
she reserved for a few kindred spirits. Their 
sorrows were counted as her own ; their praises 
seemed even more to her than her own, for 



SKETCH OF AN EARLY FRIEND. 73 

they awakened warm gratulations, while those 
addressed to herself she scrutinized, and per- 
haps, with severe humility, rejected. 

Her attachment to her relatives was pecu- 
liarly ardent. Perhaps, that to her father, 
might be styled predominant. Their tastes 
and intellectual pursuits were congenial, and 
from her earliest recollection he had made 
himself the companion both of her sports and 
studies. Advancing years and adversities had 
added to her filial affection an inexpressible 
tenderness. It was beautiful to see the blend- 
ing of deep respect, with fond devotedness, 
that marked her whole manner towards him, 
her delight in his company, her earnest care 
to protect him from all fatigue, or anxiety. 

His death was to her gentle spirit, a crush- 
ing affliction. The sickness that preceded it 
was sudden and marked with suffering. Night 
and day she was by his side. She could not 
consent that any other hand should prepare 
and administer either medicine or nourish- 
ment. Her diary records the variations of his 
state, almost hour by hour. When the last 



74 SKETCH OF AN EARLY FRIEND. 

change came, her wounded heart still breathed 
forth gratitude to Grod, for the calm and pain- 
less dismission vouchsafed to the object of her 
deep and trusting love. 

But the shadow of grief seemed long in 
passing away from the bereaved daughter. 
She returned indeed to her duties, but the 
broadest channel of earthly enjoyment was 
dry. That sublimation of soul, which ever 
looks upward for its perfect rest, became in her 
more entire. With tireless assiduity, she strove 
to comfort the widowed mother, and for her 
sake preserved a cheerful deportment. She 
took again the smile upon her beautiful lips, 
but it was not like her former smile. 

She thought to forget her sorrows in the 
occupation of a teacher, and in her own deso- 
lated paternal home, surrounded herself by a 
few pupils, for whose improvement she fer- 
vently labored. They appreciated her efforts, 
and repaid them with grateful affection. This 
employment, with devising plans for the wel- 
fare and education of the fatherless son and 



SKETCH OF AN EARLY FRIEND. 75 

daughter of her sister, kept her energies in ac- 
tion, and solaced her affliction. 

The reading of serious books, especially of 
sacred poetry, was the favorite occupation of 
her few intervals of leisure. The patient and 
gentle teacher was herself preparing for a 
more exalted class, and for an inheritance that 
fadeth not away. 

About two years after the death of her 
father, sh^ had an attack' of fever. Its first 
symptoms were slight, but her discriminating 
niind seemed to apprehend the result, and 
made arrangements for even the slightest cir- 
cumstance, as one who was to return no more. 
When the minutest item of unfinished busi- 
ness was discharged, she directed that her 
lifeless form should be laid by the side of her 
beloved father. Anticipating the delirium 
which is often a concomitant of that disease, 
she hastened to pour out to her mother and 
the other objects of her afiection, the inmost 
thoughts of a heart so soon to take flight from 
all sublunary things. 



76 SKETCH OF AN EARLY FRIEND. 

Drawing her sister's face to the pillow, be- 
side her own, she whispered, 

" I have many things to say to you. Let 
me say them now, or perhaps I may not be 
able. You know how much I have loved you. 
Promise me that you will noiv seek religion, 
seek an interest in our Saviour, and prepare to 
follow me. For oh ! I never felt so happy be- 
fore. Soon shall I be in that world 
• 

" ' Where rising fl(iods of knowledge roll, 
And pour, and pour, upon the soul.' " 

And so, with many affectionate farewells to 
the weeping mother, and kind and sweet 
words to absent friends, and high communings 
with the Hearer of prayer, passed away at the 
age of twenty-four, a most lovely and exem- 
plary being : so lovely and so exemplary that 
the friend who as a twin-sister had walked by 
her side for many years, pausing to reconsider 
this broken transcript, remembers no way- 
wardness, or blemish, save what must ever 
appertain to our frail and fallen humanity. 

Permit her to recommend to your imitation, 



SKETCH OF AN EARLY FRIEND. 77 

dear ones, her industrious improvement of 
time, her constancy in friendship, her filial and 
sisterly affections, her attention to domestic 
duties, which her intellectual tastes did not 
impair, and that humble piety, which was at 
once the basis and beautifier of all her virtues 

and attainments. 

7# 



What are those gems in the heart's casket, 
that gleam with such steady lustre? What 
are those stars in the galaxy of life, that twin- 
kle with so pure a ray? The memories of 
kindness. 

There is the smile that cheered our child- 
hood, the gift that brightened our holiday, the 
voice that gave confidence to our budding vir- 
tues, the hand that pointed us heavenward. 
There are the forms of our benefactors not en- 
shrined as dead sculptures, but living, moving, 
acting. No matter though long years have 
closed over their tomb, they again open their 
arms to us, we sit at their feet, we listen to 
the same tones that instructed, or consoled, or 
gently aided us to subdue our faults. 

Some minds are peculiarly prone to the re- 



MEMORIES OF KINDNESS. 79 

trospective action, others to the fanciful fash- 
ionings of futurity. The pleasures of one 
class are stable and steadfast, those of the 
others, illusive and insecure. 

Hearts that are the most susceptible of grat- 
itude and generosity, cherish most deeply the 
memories of kindness. Touching instances 
of their force occur throughout the life of 
Politiano, one of the early poets of Italy. 
His birth was in obscurity, about the year 
1454 ; and the kindness of the Medicean 
family, who distinguished themselves as the 
patrons of genius, supplied him with the 
means of obtaining a good education. This 
favor he engraved as he ought, on the tablet 
of unfading remembrance. 

Attracted by his precocity, and zeal in the 
prosecution of study, Lorenzo de Medici, whom 
you know in history by the title of the Mag- 
nificent, invited him to become a member of 
his household. Thus protected from want, 
and fortified by friendship, he devoted himself 
with indefatigable industry to the learning 
that he loved. 



80 MEMORIES OF KINDNESS. 

His first poem that received publication was 
written at the age of fourteen. It contained 
1400 lines, and though not free from the 
faults of a juvenile production, breathed the 
true spirit of genius, and contributed to the 
establishment of a purer taste among the peo- 
ple. Not satisfied with the cultivation of 
poetical flowers, he disciplined his young 
mind by the severer study of languages, with 
criticism and illustration of ancient authors. 
Thus he examined Ovid, Suetonius, the 
younger Pliny, Statins, and Quintilian, por- 
tions of whose works, rendered more valuable 
by his explanations, were given to the public. 
At the close of his annotations on Catullus, a 
slight record informs the reader that he was 
then at the age of seventeen. Previously to 
this, he had made considerable progress in 
translating the Iliad into Latin verse, and had 
composed a poem, which in elegance was pro- 
nounced scarcely inferior to the Greorgics of 
Virgil. 

The miscellaneous 'writings of Politiano 
prove the variety and extent of his erudition. 



MEMORIES OF KINDNESS. 81 

The emendations on ancient literature with 
which they are interspersed, he was accus- 
tomed daily to repeat to his benefactor, Lo- 
renzo de ]\Iedici, as they took their quiet rides 
on horseback, amid the luxuriant scenery of 
Florence. 

With these congenial subjects, he mingled, 
as he advanced in years, those which were less 
fascinating, but more distinguished by utility. 
The system of jurisprudence that prevailed at 
that time in Italy was principally the Roman 
civil law, founded on the constitutions of the 
emperor Justinian. It became important that 
the few existing copies of that work should be 
compared, collated, and simplified for general 
comprehension ; and this laborious undertak- 
ing was committed to Politiano. 

His habits of research and investigation in 
this extensive field, purchased for him a high 
rank among the professors of law, — a science 
not often combined with the graceful and bril- 
liant favors of the Muse. Popular applause 
followed his career, and of course rivalry and 



82 MEMORIES OF KINDNESS, 

detraction. One of his remarks, at this period 
of his hfe, it may be well to remember : 

" I am no more elated by adulation, or de- 
jected by obloquy, than astonished at finding 
my own shadow of unequal length at different 
times ; never having been led by that circum- 
stance to suppose myself a taller man in the 
morning than at noon-day." 

The parting interview of the grateful poet 
with his patron, is touchingly narrated by 
E/Oscoe, the accomplished biographer of Lo- 
renzo de Medici. "When the time came that 
this great man was to die, having taken leave 
of his nearest relatives, and given to the son 
who was to inherit his honors, the last pre- 
cepts of political wisdom and paternal love, he 
desired once more to see the man whose genius 
he had delighted to foster. As Politiano ap- 
proached, he raised himself with difficulty on 
his couch, and affectionately taking both the 
hands of the poet, waited with a placid coun- 
tenance till his sobs and tears should subside. 
But the tempest of grief only grew more vio- 
lent from the attempt to restrain it, till at 



MEMORIES OF KINDNESS. 83 

length, rushing to his apartment, and prostrat- 
ing himself, he yielded to the agony of its con- 
trol. When its turbulence had abated, he 
was again summoned to his dying benefactor, 
and reclining by his side, and bending over 
the pallid face that he might lose no whisper 
of that faint, decaying voice, he listened to 
his parting words, poured forth the eloquence 
of gratitude, and exchanged the last farewell. 

Brief, however, was to be the separation. 
After the death of Lorenzo de Medici, a cloud 
of sorrow settled on the mind of Politiano. 
As he was one day adapting to the mournful 
music of his lute, some elegiac verses he had 
composed as a tribute to his benefactor, he 
suddenly fell from a high flight of marble 
steps, and in consequence of the injuries he 
sustained, expired. 

In this slight biographical sketch, we see 
the strong influences of a life-long gratitude 
on the susceptibility of the poetic tempera- 
ment, as they were illustrated some 400 years 
ago. We would scarcely expect, or wish, a 
similar exhibition in our own differing times. 



84 MEMORIES OF KINDNESS. 

Memories of kiadness as they now exist, are 
recommended simply as sources of happiness. 
They are the " sweet influences of the Ple- 
iades," which we may salubriously bind, for 
ourselves and for others. 

Keep fresh in your hearts, the images of 
all who have shown you Jvindness, who have 
given you knowledge, who have sympathized 
in your sorrows, or aided you to overcome 
your errors. Speak often of them, and of their 
generous acts. These exercises of thought 
are healthful to the mind, and have the same 
effect on the satisfactions of life, that the 
spirit of praise has on the progress of piety. 

If the memories of kindness are so sweet 
and salutary to ourselves, let us take pains to 
create them for others. 'J'he material of which 
they are made costs little, and is easily com- 
manded. Pleasant loolis, affectionate words, 
obliging deeds, courteous manners, are they 
not in the power of us all ? These, with the 
tints of their quiet pencil, make unfading pic- 
tures in the gallery of life. The mind walks 
among them and finds solace. 



MEMORIES OF KINDNESS. 85 

Prepare some of these pictures for every 
one whom you know and love. Especially 
place one in the sanctuary of each child's heart 
with whom you are acquainted. It will be 
vivid when hoary hairs cover his temples. 
Long after you have yourself forgotten the 
slight favor, even after you are laid in the 
narrow house of silence, your name wdll linger 
on the lips of the indebted one, though greater 
services, if unaccompanied by kindness, may 
be buried in the gulf of oblivion. 

There is great economy in giving pleasure 
to children. A trifling gift, a little kindness, 
goes a great way, and is long remembered. 
The habit of being made happy, nourishes the 
habit of making others so, and the husbandry 
of kindness reproduces itself. 

The Rev. Sidney Smith has well said, that 
" childhood passed with a mixture of rational 
indulgence, under fond and wise parents, dif- 
fuses over the whole of life a coloring of calm 
pleasure, and even in extreme old age, is the 
last remembrance that time can erase from 

the mind. No enjoyment, however inconsid- 

8 



86 MEMORIES OF KINDNESS. 

erable, is confined to the present moment. 
Mankind are always the happier for having 
been once happy ; so that, if you make them 
happy now, you make them so twenty years 
hence, through the memory of it. We are the 
happier throughout life, for having once made 
an agreeable tour, or lived for any length of 
time among pleasant people ; and it is more 
probably the recollection of their past joys, 
that contributes to render the aged so inatten- 
tive to passing events, carrying them back for 
enjoyment to a world that is past, and to 
scenes that can never asrain be restored." 

Since the theory of kindness is so simple, 
yet so effective, my dear friends, cultivate its 
root in your own hearts, and entwine it 
around the hearts of others. With the mem- 
ory of your earthly benefactors, blend also the 
kindred spirit of praise to your greatest and 
best Friend. 

Praise Him, amid the mysteries of his prov- 
idence, those concealed footsteps of his infinite 
wisdom. Praise Him, when he causeth grief 
and tears, those medicines for the soul's earth- 



MEMORIES OF KINDNESS. 87 

liness. Praise him for the light of every wak- 
ing morn, for the shadow of every peaceful 
night, until the hush of the last evening Com- 
eth. Then, lift up the head and rejoice, 

" For oh ! eternity's too short 
To utter all His praise !" 

So let the spirit of love be inwrought with 
this fabric of clay, that when it falls, the soul 
may find itself at home among seraphs, hav- 
ing learned their lore while on earth. 



lUmiiiisrieiirB nf nii 3grii Jlinii. 

You have sometimes asked me in my letters 
to tell you a story. I think now of one which 
was related by a venerable friend. It was an 
incident in his own life, and as it was inter- 
esting to me, I hope may be to you also. 
Putting myself for a time in the place of the 
speaker, 

" I'll tell the tale as 'twas told to me." 

" The indeperfdence of our country was at 
length achieved. Tides of pride and pleasure 
flowed through my boyish heart. Never be- 
fore had it felt such strong emotions. My 
earliest memories had been darkened by the 
troubles of war, for my lot was cast among 
those who took a conspicuous part in our 
Revolution. With breathless attention I had 



REMINISCENCE OF AN AGED MAN, 89 

list med to the noble men who, clad in rich 
uni^)rm, sometimes surrounded my father's 
table, discussing the affairs of the perilous 
contest between the colonies and the mother- 
land. There, I gazed on Lafayette, and Ro- 
chambeau, and De G-rasse, and above all, the 
majestic Washington, whom none ever ap- 
proached without reverence, or having once 
seen, could forget. 

" After the consolidation of peace, in 1782, 
my father, being intrusted with public busi- 
ness at the court of France, took me with 
him. I was but a slender boy, and it was 
thought the voyage, and removal from the in- 
dulgences of home, might promote health and 
hardihood. 

*' During our visit in London, I was giddy 
with admiration and wonder. The parks, the 
palaces, the pomp, the never-ceasing throng, 
inspired me with a new sense of existence. 
Yet, methought there Was toward our young 
republic a feeling as if its people were a species 
of fortunate brigands, who, for their strange suc- 
cess, were objects of curiosity, rather than of 



90 REMINISCENCE OF AN AGED MAN. 

kindness or respect. Possibly, this unpleasant 
consciousness had some mixture of suspicion 
on my part, but it vanished as we entered 
France. There, I beheld with enthusiasm 
the allies of my nation, in her time of adver- 
sity, and was greeted everywhere with that 
courtesy, which to me seemed as truthful as 
it was enchanting. In the galleries of the 
Louvre, beneath the trees of the Tuilleries, by 
the statues and fountains, I wandered in a 
reverie of delight. 

" These satisfactions were however soon min- 
gled with a somewhat severe course of study, 
which I pursued with various masters, under 
the especial charge of an abbe, seldom seeing 
my father, except at breakfast, or occasionally 
in the evening. The arrival at our hotel of 
an American lady with her son, whose society 
I was sometimes permitted to enjoy, was an 
event of no slight importance in my monoto- 
nous course of life. This youth was several 
years older than myself, of striking personal 
beauty, and heir to a large fortune. His 
mother, recently left a widow, centered her 



REMINISCENCE OF AN AGED MAN. 91 

sole earthly joy in this her only child. Dread- 
ing some tendency to pulmonary disease, of 
which his father had died, she decided on 
a voyage to Europe, that he might pass the 
wintry months in a more genial clime. Often 
did I regard with silent admiration his grace- 
ful form, and the rich chestnut curls that, 
according to the fashion of the times, clus- 
tered thickly around his brow, and fell loosely 
upon his neck, and the earnest love with 
which the fond eyes of that elegant woman 
followed his every movement. Held as I was 
under the stern rule of men, those marks of 
maternal tenderness which were ever showered 
upon him, seemed to me the most enviable 
privilege. The loneliness of exile from home, 
and the memory of my own far distant mother, 
caused me to long for one of those caresses 
which were lavished upon him, and which I 
could not help fancying he received with too 
little reciprocity. Sometimes my heart rose 
against him, for what seemed indifference of 
manner to such great affection, and I said — Is 



92 REMINISCENCE OF AN AGED MAN. 

it possible that filial feeling can be wanting 
in one so richly endowed ? 

'' But seldom, while abroad, did I experience 
such utter and despairing home-sickness, as 
when on their departure for Italy, the young 
Montague bade me farewell, and his elegant 
mother kissed her hand to me from the win- 
dow of their carriage. Ah ! how hard were 
my lessons, that day ! How deeply were the 
pages of Yirgil and Telemachus saturated 
with tears ! 

" The travellers, after visiting some of the 
Italian cities, chose Florence for their winter 
residence. There, on the banks of the Arno, 
by the side of sparkling fountains, or amid 
groups of statues, where a flood of moonlight 
floated as if fain to waken the marble into life, 
might be seen walking arm in arm, that 
happy mother and her son. Almost might 
they have been taken for lovers, so lightly had 
years left a trace upon the expressive counte- 
nance of the senior. Indeed, the sweetly com- 
bined influences of nature and art, the sole 
society of him who was all the "world to her, 



REMINISCENCE OF AN AGED MAN. 93 

and the beauty of holy, requited affections 
seemed under the magic of that Italian sky, 
to have wrought out a more entire rejuvena- 
tion. 

" Not far from their habitation, was one oc- 
cupied by an English family, who made ad- 
vances to their acquaintance. Its head was 
a gentleman somewhat past the prime of 
life, and of noble extraction, but deficient in 
wealth to maintain the style that his rank re- 
quired. He therefore preferred a residence on 
the continent, for its cheapness, having a 
large household of young children by a Nea- 
politan lady, whom he had married. He had 
also one daughter, twenty years of age, or 
more, by a former wife, who it was rumored 
was of low birth, and that the union had 
never been forgiven by his parents. Adelaide 
was not tall, but firmly built, with well- 
rounded limbs, a clear, Saxon complexion, fine 
teeth, and features strongly defined. Her 
mind had not been highly cultivated, but her 
vivacity was exuberant, and her much talk- 
ing and loud laughter were repulsive to the 



94 REMINISCENCE OF AN AGED MAN. 

refined taste of the American lady. Ere long, 
the latter was painfully on her guard, perceiv- 
ing a design to monopolize the attentions, per- 
haps the affections, of her son. She pointed 
out to him the faults, that were but too con- 
spicuous, in the deportment as well as in the 
temper of Adelaide, and sought to withdraw 
him from her society. But every art to inter- 
cept her purpose was put in requisition by 
her opponents, — that free, convivial hospitality 
which is so alluring to a young stranger, and 
the flattery that captivates the unsophisticated. 
" Reports had reached them that the Mon- 
tagues were possessed of immense wealth, and 
the managing Neapolitan resolved if possible 
to dispose of to them the eldest daughter, who, 
with their many children and restricted finan- 
ces, was considered a supernumerary. Mon- 
tague was not destitute of attachment to his 
devoted mother, but regard for her wishes was 
too feeble to withstand the temptations that 
surrounded him. His visits were indeed less 
frequent, but he strove to conceal them ; and 
thus the confidence that had heretofore exist- 



REMINISCENCE OF AN AGED MAN. 95 

ed, the only anchor of perfect love, was lost. 
Still, this secretiveness, to a woman of her ob- 
servation, was but a flimsy veil. In the ear- 
lier stages of their intercourse with this Eng- 
lish family, she had occasionally called, when 
she supposed her son to be there, that he might 
accompany her home. At length they bade 
the servants deny them to her, and if neces- 
sary, oppose her entrance. 

*' Her expostulations with her son became 
more earnest and impassioned. He soothed 
her by gentle words, disclaiming any serious 
intention of marriage, sometimes adding a 
promise not to repeat his visits, which he still 
continued to break. 

" Her decision was therefore made to leave 
Florence ; and one evening as she sate long in 
lonely meditation, her son having been absent 
for the greater part of the day, she listened 
hopefully to every footfall, but in vain. The 
midnight hour drew on, and moved by un- 
wonted energy, she invoked assistance from 
the magistrates of the city, and drove to the 
English hotel. She was rudely told by the 



96 REMINISCENCE OF AN AGED MAN. 

servants that they were not at home, but 
overcoming their resistance, made her way to 
the parlor. There, the lights were suddenly 
extinguished, and she left in utter darkness. 
Summoning to her aid the officer who was 
commissioned to attend her, he spoke in a loud 
voice, accosting the young man by name : 

" ' I am persuaded that you are here. I en- 
join you to come forth, and submit yourself to 
your mother. It is my duty to see that this 
be done. I shall be punished by the authorities 
under whom I act, if I fail in my allotted du- 
ty. And I forewarn you all, that this house 
will be strictly searched, for the gentleman 
whom we demand. Therefore, if any are so 
unwise as to aid in this concealment, I coun- 
sel that, to save themselves trouble, he be 
delivered up without delay.' 

" Then, from a recess whither he had been 
hurried by Adelaide, young Montague emerged, 
and, crestfallen, offered his arm to his mother. 
When they were in the coach, she set before 
him the servility and turpitude of the part 



REMINISCENCE OF AN AGED MAN. 97 

he was acting, unworthy of himself, of her, 
and of the name they bore. She reminded 
him that if there were truth in his assertions, 
that no marriage was contemplated, such in- 
timacy of intercourse was disgraceful to all 
concerned. She depicted the miseries of an 
union with a bold, intriguing woman, older 
than himself, of masculine character and a 
selfish heart. She added that the amount of 
his inheritance might be materially affected 
by the course he should in future pursue ; as 
that portion of the estate which was vested in 
herself, by the will of his father, she should 
not feel justified in transmitting to him, if he 
was false to the principles which that father 
had enforced. Then, with a burst of tears, 
she exclaimed, — 

" ' Oh ! my son, let me no longer speak thus 
to you. For eighteen years you have been 
the pride of my heart. Destroy not that, and 
my life together. Be the prop an 1 protector 
of my widowhood. So shall you please the 
pure spirit of the father who loved us both, 
9 



98 REMINISCENCE OF AN AGED MAN. 

and doubtless from his heavenly home watches 
you with a seraph's eye.' 

*' Touched and ashamed, the recreant threw 
himself at her feet, imploring forgiveness, and 
promising to become all that her affectionate 
heart could desire. Trustful and hopeful, 
her reliance was again renewed, and she re- 
joiced to see him active in preparation for 
their departure to Rome. There, in the eter- 
nal city, she once more breathed freely, and 
leaned upon her lone and beautiful idol. Lin- 
gering together, amid the haunts that anti- 
quity had consecrated, musing in the ruinous 
palace of the Csesars, or beneath the awful 
shadow of the Coliseum, they seemed to for- 
get that they had ever sighed. One evening, 
they were conversing later than usual, ten- 
derly, and as it were, with the full confidence 
of early days. The next morning, she waited 
long for him at breakfast, but he appeared not. 
His own servant said that his master's door 
was still locked ; and no reply being given to 
repeated calls, it was forced. He was not 



REMINISCENCE OF AN AGED MAN. 99 

there. The pillow was unpressed, and most 
of his wardrobe missing. 

" Investigations through the police, elicited 
that a Florentine carriage, apparently con- 
taining two young persons, and driving with 
extreme rapidity, had passed the gates at 
midnight. Was it possible that Adelaide, 
throwing off all womanly delicacy, had come 
in person for him who seemed to have broken 
her snare ? Could it be, that clandestine ar- 
rangements for an elopement had been carried 
on under the mask of such filial duty and 
affection ? A horror of great darkness fell on 
the mother's soul. 

" After the first stunning shock, she roused 
to action those maternal energies that never 
die, while hope vouchsafes a single dew-drop 
for their nutriment. Ascertaining that the fu- 
gitives had taken the road to France, she with 
an experienced courier, and trusty servants, 
followed them without delay. 

" The passage of the Alps at mid-winter, 
always a serious enterprise, was far more per- 
ilous in those times than in our own. Roads, 



100 REMINISCENCE OF AN AGED MAN. 

constructed with great labor and expense, 
which now diminish the danger, had then no 
existence. The tempest and cold of that sea- 
son had been proverbially severe, and she who 
was about to encounter such exposure and 
hardships, had been nurtured and sheltered 
among all the luxurious appliances of wealth. 
But, when even the courage of the guide fal- 
tered, she ventured unappalled over ice-bound 
and mist-wrapt precipices, having ever in her 
eye, a bright image of him whom she had 
lulled on her breast to his infant slumbers. 
The thunder of the terrific avalanche reverber- 
ated from cliff to cliff, yet in her ear was a 
thrilling love-tone, that none but mothers 
hear. Fatigue unstrung every nerve, yet her 
endurance triumphed, for hope solaced her 
sleepless pillow with a song whose perpetual 
burden was, ' Mf/ son ! my son /' 

" After obstacles and casualties which the 
boldest traveller might have accounted formi- 
dable, they reached, amid a storm of blinding 
snow, the foot of the Alps. There, her almost 
superhuman strength failed, and in the miser- 



REMINISCENCE OF AN AGED MAN. 101 

able hostel of a meagre hamlet, she was smit- 
ten by a raging, wasting fever. Many days 
and nights life, like a waning lamp, flickered 
in its socket. Whenever she was able to raise 
her hand, or rule her bewildered brain, she 
pencilled, scarce legibly, — 

*' ' Come to me. I am dying. Let me see 
your face once more before I die.' 

*' Many such brief scrolls were despatched to 
the absent son. Surely, they could not have 
reached him, for no answer came. 

" But nature again rallied, and sooner than 
the physicians deemed expedient, she demand- 
ed to be placed in her carriage. Stretched on 
the couch that was there spread for her, by 
slow stages, she proceeded on her way. Spring 
smiled gently on the sad traveller, and while 
it revivified the naked tree, forgot not to bring 
her also some gift of renovation. And as the 
soul that hath not intentionally wandered 
from duty is never utterly desolate, there 
sometimes dropped upon hers, balm which she 
knew was distilled above the cloud. 

" Fair France unfolded the vine-leaf to 
9* 



102 REMINISCENCE OF AN AGED MAN. 

greet her, and the perfume of early blossoms 
floated on every breeze. — The vernal evening 
was deepening into darkness, as she passed the 
Parisian barrier. Busy memories of departed 
joy mocked and lacerated her. Shut in the 
depths of her heart was the mournful melody 
of Naomi, ' I went forth full, and have re- 
turned empty. Yea, the Almighty hath dealt 
bitterly with me.' 

" Her directions had been so precise that 
she was driven directly to the hotel where her 
son was a lodger. Lamps had been just light- 
ed, and the curtains dropped in a gorgeously 
furnished apartment, where two persons were 
silently sitting. As the door opened, and a 
lady muffled in travelling habiliments, ap- 
proached with feeble and irresolute steps, a 
young man started from the divan, and folded 
her closely in his arms. There was no sound 
save that of bursting sobs, and then she sank 
fainting upon a sofa. 

"Restoratives were hastily administered, 
and vv'hen light returned to her eye arose 



REMINISCENCE OF AN AGED MAN, 103 

broken murmurs of ' Oh mother ! mother !' — 
* My son ! my dear son I' 

" Then Montague led forward Adelaide, 
*^ See! — my wife." And a tremulous whisper 
sighed on those white lips, 

" ' Put my arms around her neck !' The 
half-lifeless arms were lifted, and laid as she 
directed, and the delicate, emaciated hands 
hung corpse-like over the shoulder of that 
young creature, while a voice, as from the 
depth of a troubled, yet subdued spirit, earn- 
estly uttered, 

" ' Ah, yes, I ivill be a mother to you.' 

*' After this — continued my venerable friend 
— I lost sight of the fortunes of the Montagues, 
until my foreign education was completed, 
and I returned to my native land. When my 
father took his seat in Congress, I was permit- 
ted with my sister, and two of her young 
friends, to accompany him and pass a season 
at New York, then our seat of government. 
While there, a letter arrived from the Monta- 
gue family, urgently requesting me to visit 
them, and having obtained my father's oon- 



104 REMINISCENCE OF AN AGED MAN. 

sent, I undertook the journey, with high anti- 
cipations of enjoyment. By arrangement I 
was to be the guest of the mother, at her city- 
home, and go as frequently as we chose to the 
country-seat of her son in the vicinity, where 
he and his wife, deeming the atmosphere more 
salubrious for their little child, held at that 
time their residence. 

" I shall never forget the admiration with 
which I first beheld that mansion, half em- 
bosomed in lofty trees, and adorned with fair 
lawns and gardens, the bright waters dancing 
and sparkling here and there, and the air filled 
with the melody of birds. 

'• I seemed to 2:aze on the charms of a Floren- 
tine landscape, and said to myself, here surely 
is happiness. Montague and Adelaide greeted 
me warmly, and the affinities of European 
travel and adventure gave lively themes to 
our discourse, during our almost daily inter- 
views. They were both buoyant with health, 
proud of their beautiful child, and surrounded 
by all the elegance and influence that wealth 
bestows. To me, unversed in the ways of the 



REMINISCENCE OF AN AGED MAN. 105 

world, and prone, as the young are, to be 
dazzled by whatever strikes the senses, it did 
not occur that there was no perfect unison of 
hearts. 

" Once, as my visit drew near a close, the 
mother and myself, with a few select friends, 
were dining at the luxurious table of Monta- 
gue. There Adelaide took occasion to speak 
repeatedly, in a loud voice, of what she termed 
the ignorance of her husband, and her utter 
contempt of his opinions. At length, the 
mother, who sate near her, in low lones, 
kindly, but firmly, admonished her. Then 
the choler of the lady broke forth unmitigated. 

** ' What's the use of keeping up such a 
show of ceremony ? when every one knows 
that in spite of his money, he is a fooV 

" Our dessert was left untasted, and we 
walked in the garden, till our carriage came. 
My heart was grieved for the mother, but the 
silence of constraint and sympathy was upon 
us, and no allusion was made to a subject so 
painfully delicate. 

'' Two or three mornings after, I was awoke 



106 REMINISCENCE OF AN AGED MAN. 

by the tramp of horses in the court-yard. It 
was the coach of her son and his wife, who 
had come to take breakfast with us. During 
the repast, all made ill-sustained efforts for 
cheerfulness, and ease of manner. As we 
passed from the breakfasting-room to the par- 
lor, a lawyer was announced. I would have 
withdrawn, but was requested to remain. Pro- 
ducing a paper, he read aloud articles of mat- 
rimonial separation, which had been drawn up 
at their mutual desire. They provided for 
Adelaide a liberal stipend, and liberty of im- 
mediate return to her parents in Europe. She 
was asked if they were entirely satisfactory. 
With an audible voice, she answered in the 
affirmative, adding that she should gladly go, 
never having felt at home for an hour in this 
hateful country. There was one .more in- 
quiry, 

" ' Are you willing to leave your child ?' 
Without hesitation or emotion, she replied — 
* Yes, I am.' I gazed at her to see whether 
she were indeed a woman, or a fiend. 

*' Montague having expressed his approbation 



REMINISCENCE OF AN AGED MAN. 107 

of the articles, each was requested to add their 
signature. With rapid step she approached 
the table, and wrote her name in a bold, dash- 
ing hand. Yet methought I detected a ner- 
vous tremulousness about her compressed 
mouth. The young husband was pale as 
marble. What a scene ! — The most sacred 
ties thus to be sundered without a tear. 

" The legal part of the transaction having 
been finished, some conversation ensued about 
the journey and voyage of Adelaide, and as I 
was to leave in the morning, I was requested 
to take her in my charge. I replied that I 
had not experience enough to assume the 
whole responsibility proposed, but would en- 
gage to place her under the protection of the 
ladies of my family in New York, where my 
father, if desired, would make proper arrange- 
ments for her passage across the ocean. 

'' While we were thus discoursing, Monta- 
gue stood in the recess of a window. Thither, 
after brief delay, Adelaide hastened. Through 
the rich curtains whose heavy folds partially 
enveloped them, I heard the sob of a female 



108 REMINISCENCE OF AN AGED MAN. 

voice. Had the love of a mother at length 
asserted its power, and awoke strong repent- 
ance ? Or had she touched in a heart long 
her own, some chord of irresistible tenderness ? 

*' We knew not. But they were in each 
other's arms, and all forgiven. The instru- 
ment of separation crackled in the flames. 
The innocent child hung round the necks of 
its parents, and joy crowned the day that be- 
gan in estrangement. 

" The mother's satisfaction at this reconcili- 
ation was subdued, and faintly lighted a face, 
once eminently beautiful, but where time and 
anxiety had commenced their ravages. Had 
the act which so nearly produced such deci- 
sive consequences, been solitary in its charac- 
ter, and not one of a series, hope might again 
have beguiled her, but now, she committed 
herself to the future, as only desirous to learn 
perfectly the lesson ' Thy will be done.'' 

" For myself, though every attention that 
a lavish hospitality could devise, had been 
heaped upon me, I was thankful to escape. 
On my homeward journey, like a bird whose 



REMINISCENCE OF AN AGED MAN. 109 

exulting song is suddenly checked, I rumi- 
nated, a sadder and a wiser youth. 

*' Montague I saw not again, until after my 
own bridal. Grod had blessed me with a most 
lovely companion, nurtured in his holy fear, 
and with a pleasant home. One Sunday, a few 
weeks after our marriage, being detained from 
public worship by some temporary indisposi- 
tion, a note arrived from Montague, saying 
that he was at a neighboring hotel, for only 
an hour or two, with a couple of gentlemen, 
his travelling companions, and would call on 
me, if my New England notions about the 
Sabbath would permit. Scarcely had I read 
the note, ere Montague was announced. But 
what a change ! That once graceful form 
and noble face, bloated and marred by intem- 
perance. He told me with coarse laughter 
that his wife had long since left him for her 
native clime, to return no more. Still un- 
moved by emotion, he added the intelligence 
that his mother and his child were both dead. 
Fixing my eyes with astonishment on his 
stoical features, I perceived that he was stu- 



110 REMINISCENCE OF AN AGED MAN. 

pified with wine. Both manner and speech 
revealed his debasement. His stay was short, 
for he said his party awaited him, anxious to 
pursue their journey. 

" Though I was not unmindful of my obliga- 
tions to his hospitality, and would have recip- 
rocated them, had circumstances allowed, yet 
was I secretly thankful that he took his de- 
parture before my sweet bride returned from 
church, for I would not that her pure taste 
should have been shocked by the profanity of 
such a guest. In the course of the same year, 
I heard of his sudden death, from the effects 
of a prolonged revel. 

" ' So Apoplexy, gorg'd Intemperance knocks 

Down to the earth at once, as butcher felleth ox.' " 

My aged friend ceased. And his story, to 
me who was accustomed to hang with rever- 
ence on his lips, seemed not long. To you, 
my dear listeners, I hope it may not have 
been tedious. In your minds, I doubt not, 
are the same meditations that occupy my own, 
— the mournful ruin and its exciting causes. 



REMINISCENCE OF AN AGED MAN. Ill 

Those disastrous elements in the character 
of the young man whose fortunes we have 
pursued, may probably be resolved into the 
early effeminacy of wealth, too much of ma- 
ternal indulgence, too little of filial gratitude 
and love ; but eventually and above all, to a 
rash union with a venal and vulgar spirit, 
destitute of those virtues and affections, with- 
out which domestic life can be neither happy 
nor safe, and woman's mission, like a falling 
star, is but a failure and an astonishment.*" 

* The incidents of this story were related to me by the 
late Daniel Wadsworth, Esq. 



How rapidly do seasons sweep on, and years 
revolve. How soon will those, now in the 
course of education, close their text-books, 
and assume the weight of untried duties 

Sometimes, in the hushed quietness of our 
pleasant school-room, when every young bright 
brow is bent over the studious page, a winged 
thought lifts the curtain from the future, and 
with magic pencil portrays each one as she 
may then appear. 

Ask you how ? 

Not under the parental roof, but in a home 
of your own, whither you have been drawn 
by a holy, confiding, deathless affection. I 
seem to behold the eyes, now so radiant with 
youthful spirits, express the more subdued 
and deeper felicity, of making all in your 



THE FUTURE HOME. 113 

little realm happier, and better. I hear the 
voices, long so sweet to my ear, impressing 
on those who look to you for nurture or coun- 
sel, the precepts by whose guidance you have 
yourselves walked in the ways of truth and 
honor. The benefits of your diligence and 
accuracy here, in study, in recitation, in treas- 
uring what you acquire, I see illustrated in 
the regard there paid to a mind enriched by 
knowledge, and in its own inherent self-re- 
spect, and bless Grod that no mutation of for- 
tune can rob you of this heritage. I perceive 
also, that intellects thus trained will be ever 
adding to their stores, thus keeping up in 
some measure, with the spirit of our advan- 
cing age, which registers its progress and as- 
pects with the velocity of the rail-car, and the 
tension of the telegraph. 

Methinks, I see each of you moving about, 
as spirits of happiness in a sphere of love. 
Nothing escapes your attention, that ministers 
to the comfort of those around. Nothing is 
performed as a task, but with that cheerful- 
ness of manner, which makes duty a pleasure. 
10* 



114 THE FUTURE HOME. 

In the arrangements for the table, the adap- 
tation of a wardrobe to the differing seasons, 
the provident care of supplies, the place of all 
articles essential to housekeeping, I admire 
your skill and order, and find a stronger argu- 
ment for combining domestic tastes with the 
early and entire processes of female culture. 

Neatness and order, characterize all your 
apartments. You are not emulous of display, 
knowing its heartless toil, its poor recompense, 
its liability to be ever out-done, and out-shone. 
You avoid extravagance, and are not ambi- 
tious to indulge in lavishness or luxury, which 
might bring anxiety, perhaps the pressure of 
debt on him, to whom you are bound to be a 
helper, and not a burden, or a snare. 

You practise economy, not that you may 
hoard, but that you may be just, and gener- 
ous. You remunerate with liberality all who 
serve you, counting the free punctual payment 
of honest industry, a species of charity. Your 
household assistants are incited to faithful 
service, yet cheered by a kind interest in their 
Welfare ; and even the well-being of domestic 



THE FUTURE HOME. 115 

animals cared for, by hearts that tenderly re- 
gard the humblest creature that the Almighty 
has made, and placed under their protection. 

I perceive that you remember to send por- 
tions to the needy, and comforts to the sick,' 
and that in your repository for distribution 
are books of instruction, and garments that 
you have yourself prepared for the aged and 
the orphan. This I should have expected 
from my intimate knowledge of your benevo- 
lent impulses, and your conscientious adher- 
ence to right principles and habits. 

Still, this vision of your future home seems 
to have cheered me like an actual visit, and I 
feel heightened gratitude for the virtues that 
beautify our allotted sphere of action, and swell 
the amount of human happiness. 

Perhaps you may think I more frequently 
recur to the subject of housekeeping, than is 
fitting for a teacher of other studies. But it 
is a science of broad extent, and minute detail. 
It cannot be grasped without due preparation, 
any more than a course of history could be 
achieved without laborious reading, or profi- 



116 THE FUTURE HOME. 

ciency in music secured without patient prac- 
tice, or skill in painting attained without per- 
ception of color. The mistakes of a novice 
are detrimental to health, dignity, and just 
expectation. A favorite writer of our own 
sex has forcibly said — " What a happy day 
would that be for the country whose morning 
should smile upon the making of a law for 
allowing no woman to marry, until she had 
become an economist, thoroughly acquainted 
with the expenses of a respectable mode of 
living, and able to calculate the requisites of 
comfort, in connection with all the probable 
contingencies of life. If such a law should 
be so cruel as to suspend, for a year or more, 
every approach to the hymeneal altar, it 
would at least be equally effective in averting 
that bitter repentance with which so many 
look back to -^he hurried manner in which 
they rushed blindfold upon an untried fate, 
and only open their eyes to their madness and 
folly, when it is too late to avert the fatal con- 
sequences." 

In looking abroad upon society, I cannot 



THE FUTURE HOME. 117 

fail to perceive that many vices owe their 
existence to the want of genial influences, 
and a system of comfort in the domestic sanc- 
tuary, or a neglect of care and prudence in 
those who regulate its polity. I see the tor- 
ture of unfulfilled obligation driving men to 
desperation and despair ; I see even the most 
fearful crimes of which the penal laws take 
cognizance, instigated either by inordinate de- 
sire of wealth, or by mistaken indulgence of the 
lavish and luxurious expenditure of a family. 
Therefore, I would have you, beloved com- 
panions, content to be more simple in your 
appointments than your neighbors, if it is 
fitting that you should be so ; and to believe 
that you have an intrinsic excellence which, 
apart from show or splendor, is capable of 
winning lasting respect and love. As your 
characters shall more fully develop, amid the 
joys and duties of that future home, which in 
fancy we have thus explored, may it be said 
of you, as it was of the fair, high-souled Jew- 
ess, in the camp of Assyrian foes, — ''Who can 



118 THE rUTURE HOME. 

despise a people, that have among them such 
women !" 

I find it in my heart to say to you, dear 
friends, as though I were in truth your guest, 
sitting by your own fireside, Go on, and faith- 
fully fulfil woman's mission. In benevolence 
it is akin to theirs, who " bear us up in their 
hands, lest we dash our foot against a stone." 
Keep their blessed example before you, and in 
your home ministrations cultivate a smile, 
and let it be the smile of the spirit. Never 
repine at what cannot be altered, nor suffer 
even the regrets of omitted duty to sadden 
your deportment, but rather to quicken more 
watchful zeal for the guidance of the future. 

The most cautious must sometimes be in- 
structed by their own mistakes. If we must 
ourselves buy the costly wares of experience, 
we will try to conduct the traffic with as little 
loss and as much good-humor as possible. An 
English clergyman, in treating of domestic 
responsibilities, has well said, — " It is as easy 
to keep a calm and cheerful house, as a neat 
and orderly one. Almost any one may be for- 



THE FUTURE HOME. 119 

bearing, courteous, and polite, in the abode of 
a neighbor. If aught goes wrong there, or 
out of tune, we make efforts to excuse it, or 
perhaps, to show that it was scarcely observed 
or felt. This amiable conduct is quite easy, 
and natural, in the house of a friend. What 
is therefore so involuntary in the home of an- 
other, I will not believe to be quite impossible 
in our own ; but maintain without fear that 
all the courtesies of gentle and refined inter- 
course may be upheld, and evinced in domes- 
tic life. A husband, as willing to be pleased, 
and as anxious to please, in his own home, as 
in that of another, and a wife as intent to 
make things as comfortable and pleasant every 
day in her family, as on set-days to her guests, 
cannot fail to make a happy household." 

Possibly, you may imagine that too much 
stress is laid on the amenities of manner, and 
the every-day occupations of home. Yet the 
most clear-sighted and rational observers, pro- 
nounce them to be essential elements in the 
science of human happiness. *' Those who 



120 THE FUTURE HOME. 

are happy here," says a philosophical writer, 
'< are more likely to be happy hereafter." 

How beautiful is this brief life, with its 
succession of duties adapted to every hour, 
from dawn till evening's close, through which, 
in the sunlight of a never-tiring benevolence, 
we may go " from strength to strength, till 
every one of us in Zion appeareth before Grod." 

How beautiful is life in its affections, that 
guard the cradle of infancy, sing bird-like 
among the flowers where youth wanders, 
smooth the hoary temples of age, and bend in 
tearful tenderness when the " silver cord is 
loosed, and the golden bowl broken, and the 
pitcher is broken at the fountain, and the 
wheel broken at the cistern." 

How beautiful is life with hope, lining the 
cloud with silver, and arching the storm with 
a heavenly bow, and pointing to a higher 
existence, which we may enter as a glorious 
temple, from this dim vestibule to joys which 
" eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither the 
heart of man conceived." 

You are now passing through the most 



THE FUTURE HOME. 121 

beautiful season of this beautiful earthly life. 
What the spring is to the year you are to us, 
who love you, the blossom, the perfume, the 
promise. 

May the blossom expand into the perfect 
flower, and its perfume cheer all who ap- 
proach it, until its promise be made good both 

for time and eternity. 

11 



A LOAN is an entrusted possession, to be re- 
turned or repaid. When not limited by any- 
stipulated term of continuance, it may be re- 
claimed at the volition of the owner ; and its 
temporary use is wont to imply favor, or obli- 
gation of gratitude. 

In strictness of definition, all oiir earthly 
possessions are loans. We are indeed accus- 
tomed to speak of them, as if their title was 
inherent in ourselves ; but how often does 
their unannounced departure rebuke this error, 
and disclose the tenure by which they were 
held. 

All history is but a field to illustrate the 
perishable nature of the gifts that ambition 
covets. Even the limited course that we 
have as yet together pursued, has often shown 



LOANS. 123 

US the laurel, the sceptre, and the plume, van- 
ishing " like the baseless fabric of a vision." 
Multitudes who, by virtue or valor, laborious 
service or hazardous enterprise, deemed them- 
selves both worthy and secure of popular dis- 
tinction, have been made striking examples of 
its uncertainty. Thus it was with Aristides 
in his banishment, and Socrates, under the 
chill of the hemlock, and Columbus in his se- 
questration at Valladolid, and the fallen Wol- 
sey, in his remorseful admission, — 

"Had I but serv'd my God with half the zeal 
I serv'd my king, He would not in my age 
Have left me naked to mine enemies." 

Still more touching was the exclamation of 
the noble Strafford, on his way to the scaffold, 
" Put not your trust in princes, nor in the son 
of man, with whom there is no help." 

ffhe strongest antitheses of fortune and of 
fate have been exhibited in different ages and 
climes, by those who have held the hereditary 
sway, and borne the envied insignia of royalty. 
Aspiring like the eagle to make their nest 



124 LOANS. 

among the stars, they have fallen as the spar- 
row which the fowler pierces. 

Hippias and Hipparchus taught ancient 
Greece the frailty of power and pride, when 
Vengeance unsheathing the sword " by myrtle 
leaves concealed," struck one a lifeless corpse, 
and drove the other a fugitive to Persian wilds. 
The same lesson was early given to iron-heart- 
ed Rome by the young sons of Ancus Martins, 
when the sceptre on which they would fain 
have fixed their grasp, changed like the rod 
of Aaron into a serpent, and wrapped in peas- 
ant's weeds, they fled away, leaving a stran- 
ger seated upon their father's throne. 

Mournful was the voice from England, our 
own ancestral clime, when the second Stuart 
came forth, beneath the shadow of his own 
palace at Whitehall, to die, and one of the 
meanest of the people reddened his axe in the 
lifeblood of his anointed sovereign. France 
made her sixteenth Bourbon, and the beauti- 
ful Marie Antoinette, beacons, amid the quick- 
sands of pomp and splendor, when she hurried 
them from the brilliant fetes of the Tuilleries, 



LOANS. 125 

and the fascinations of Versailles, to the bar, 
the dungeon, the guillotine. Buonaparte read 
the startling " Mene, 3Iene, Tekel,^^ on the 
floating banner of the Allied Powers, in the 
capitulation at Paris, in the solitude of Elba, 
on the cliffs of the great, gray, imprisoning 
rocks at St. Helena. There, the heavy surges, 
as they broke upon the shore, told hoarsely, 
day and night, of the glory that had departed, 
as erst the ghostly " majesty of buried Den- 
mark" accosted the musing, melancholy Ham- 
let. 

Wealth is among the most coveted and the 
most trans'itory gifts. It. is needless to revert 
to storied annals, or to foreign lands, for a 
commentary on the inspired assertion, that 
it takes to itself wings and flees away. It 
is subject to the unfriendly sway of all the 
elements. Fire may devour it, water sub- 
merge it, earth swallow it, winds obliterate 
it. Its tendency to transition, to disappear- 
ance, without leaving a trace behind, is ob- 
vious to common observers ; while the con- 
11* 



126 LOANS. 

soientious mind perceives yet another formi- 
dable evil, the danger of abuse. 

" What way can Christians take," says the 
pious and clear-minded John Wesley, "that 
their money sink them not into perdition ? 
There is but one way, and no other, under 
heaven. And this is that way, — let those 
who get all they can, and save all they can, 
likewise give all they can. Then, the more 
will they grow in grace, and the more treasure 
will they lay up in heaven." 

Wealth, unallied to benevolence and a sense 
of responsibility, is a loan perilous to our eter- 
nal interests. Faithfully used, as a means 
of influence, of imparting happiness, of reliev- 
ing sorrow, of enlightening ignorance, of dif- 
fusing a knowledge of the Grospel, it is one 
of the richest blessings. But since the true 
standard of man's excellence cannot " be laid 
in the balance with gold, neither shall silver 
be weighed as the price thereof," let us seek 
to amass treasures that can neither escape, 
rust, or be alienated. And since reverses of 
fortune are so frequent as scarcely to excite 



LOANS. 127 

surprise, we will, should they befall us, en- 
deavor to meet them calmly, with a willing- 
ness to make changes, sacrifices, or exertions, 
as the case may require ; for those can better 
spare adventitious good, who have like your- 
selves that which is self-derived and indepen- 
dent. 

Some of our loans expire by their own lim- 
itation. The season of youth is one of this 
nature. Its beauty, and the attractions that 
depend upon it, must pass away. Conceal- 
ment, resistance, regret, are alike ineffectual. 
The rose and lily upon the cheek, like their 
prototypes in the garden, will blight and fade. 
Carry not in your hearts, because of this, the 
secret- murmur of ocean's tinted shell. Time 
will strangely tarnish and shred away the 
shining, luxuriant tresses. Be not afraid, or 
ashamed of his snows. He will scarcely for- 
get to furrow the forehead. Meet his plough- 
share with an added smile. The eye must 
abate in its power and brilliance ; perchance, 
the ear forfeit its exquisite perceptions, and 
the limbs their elastic play. 



128 LOANS. 

Why do I draw this unpleasant picture, 
ask you ? That I may impress, what I trust 
you will not fail to exemplify — the precept to 
grow old gracefully. Avoid the unequal and 
fruitless contest with time ; the attempt by 
gay dress, or frivolity of manner, to hoodwink 
and deceive. Never fall into the weakness of 
denying your true age. There is no disgrace 
in an early date, or in having numbered many 
years, unless they have been misapplied or 
useless. I advise you also not to be ashamed 
of gray hairs, or to take much trouble in hid- 
ing them. There is a beauty in fitness, and 
I have ever admired the temples silvered by 
time. 

Toil not to arrest fleeting charms, so much 
as to s apply their place. Grave Autumn 
may not wear the buds of Spring : yet there 
is a beauty that surmounteth age. G-od 
hath given to every period of life, as to every 
changing season, its peculiar charm. Take, 
therefore, with you, to advancing jears, should 
tney be appointed you, their own perennial 
adornment, a cheerful interest in the young, 



LOANS. 129 

and in passing events, a deepened spirit of 
forbearance, a broader charity, and the smile 
of those who dwell nearer to the angels : — for 
goodness and love have a perpetual youth, 
and, as they approach their native clime, 
should reflect its sun beam. Take the beauty 
of heaven in exchange for that of earth, and 
be content. 

Next to the salvation of the immortal soul, 
our most precious treasures are our dearest 
friends, the partakers of kindred blood, and 
of fond affection. These too are loans. By 
the tenure of this changeful existence, they 
are either to go from us, or we from them. 
The order of precedence is in the counsels 
of the Eternal. Whether the silver-haired 
grandsire shall be first summoned, or the 
cradled babe, the father in the pride of his 
strength or the daughter growing up like a 
pure violet under his protecting shadow, the 
mother in the tenderness of her unfaltering 
love or the son upon whose young arm, as 
a cherished prop, her weariness reposed, is 
known only to Him, the Former of our frame, 



130 LOANS. 

who remembereth that we are but dust. " For 
within a little while we return to that, from 
which we were taken, when the life that was 
lent us, shall be demanded." 

But in what manner should the heart's 
loans be restored ? "We return a book to its 
owner, with thanks for the privilege of peru- 
sal, and repay money with interest for its use. 
How shall the soul's chief jewels be rendered 
back, when He who entrusted, sees fit to re- 
claim them ? 

Without tears ? No. The voice of nature 
must have utterance. It is permitted us to 
weep, but not to murmur, to question, or to 
repine. With the grief that attends the de- 
parture of our precious ones, we should min- 
gle gratitude for the period of intercourse 
and enjoyment that has been vouchsafed us ; 
and praise, if they were fitted for a higher 
state of existence, and called by the smile of 
a Father, to His home in heaven. 

Thus should we leave our dearest earthly 
friends, yea, and our own lives also, in His 
hand, whose infinite wisdom and love will do 



LOANS. 131 

no wrong, either to us, or to them. Our own 
lives ^ said I ? Is there aught that we can 
call our own ? The eloquent Apostle answers 
us :-;— " Ye are not your own, for ye are bought 
with a price. Therefore glorify G-od in your 
body, and in your spirit which is G-od's." 

So may we live, beloved, that when called 
to resign this fleeting breath, we may pass 
fearlessly and trustfully behind the veil that 
now divides us from the world unseen. And 
may the communion we have thus had to- 
gether, of the nature of our earthly loans, the 
uncertainty of their continuance, the sudden- 
ness of their flight, and the fitting mode of 
their restitution, assist us faithfully to use, or 
meekly to resign them, and with an eye ever 
raised to Him who hath a right, when He 
will, and where He will, to reclaim His own, 
" revere Him, in the stillness of the soul." 



You know well, my dear young friends, the 
pleasure of sharing what you value, with 
those you love. Not only are your treasures 
by this partition made more precious, but the 
hopes and the joys, thus imparted, acquire 
both a deeper zest and a higher nature. Sel- 
fish satisfactions your affectionate hearts would 
neither covet, nor enjoy. 

Of this, I am the more convinced by observ- 
ing the eagerness with which you apportion 
the freshly gathered flowers among your com- 
panions, the smile that sheds into their bosoms 
the superflux of your own happiness, the tear 
that more perfectly than words speaks, your 
sympathy in their sorrows. You do not con- 
fine to your own breasts, a pleasant item of 
intelligence, an interesting book, an attain- 



ON INTERCESSORY PRAYER. 133 

merit in knowledge. You feel that each must 
be participated in, by kindred spirits ere they 
can be made complete. 

Blessed spirit of benevolence ! How fitting 
that it should pervade every hour of the life 
of a woman, and a Christian. " None of us 
liveth unto himself," saith the Apostle, " and 
none of us dieth unto himself." So that even 
the pangs, the solemnities, the bereavements, 
with which this changeful pilgrimage closes, 
are for the benefit of others. Thus they learn 
to take deeper into their souls the lesson of 
their own mortality, to prepare for it, to mod- 
erate inordinate attachment to a life they are 
so soon to leave, and to examine the founda- 
tions of that faith which alone is able to sus- 
tain them, when the crumbling shores of time 
betray their footing. 

You have already tasted the delight of di- 
viding your possessions, your sentiments, your 
sympathies. You know how to heighten your 
own happiness by increasing that of those 
whom you love, how to cheer the stranger, 

how to enlighten the ignorant, how to relieve 
12 



134 ON INTERCESSORY PRAYER. 

the poor. Griorious lessons have you learned, 
for young travellers in this changeful clime, 
where the cloud and the tear follow the sun- 
beam. 

Shall I point out to you yet another step in 
your ascending progress — the diffusion of spir- 
itual riches ? You have been taught the priv- 
ilege of prayer, and the foundation on which 
it rests. The blessed precept, "Ask, and ye 
shall receive," has been practically familiar, 
since those days of infancy, when the mother's 
kiss composed you to slumber, and while your 
feeble articulations, as yet untrained to higher 
efforts of devotion, chained her delighted ear 
with that sweetly simple orison — 

" Now I lay me down to sleep, 
I pray the Lord my soul to keep." 

If therefore you may speak to your Father in 
heaven, with hope that your errors shall be 
forgiven, your best resolves fortified, your ad- 
versities turned into gain, remember in your 
supplications the souls of others, who have 
need of the same blessings. 



ON INTERCESSORY PRAYER. 135 

May we use such an expression as the sel- 
fishness of prayer ? If we may, and if our 
solitary devotion, should reveal that tendency, 
let us seek and ask for more expansive charity. 
If a wide benevolence of the things that per- 
ish, brings a reward to the giver, may not the 
effort to impart those that last forever, also 
bring into our own bosoms '^ good measure, 
pressed down and running over ?" 

'' I said, I will water my best garden, — is 
the beautiful comparison of the son of Sirach 
— I will water abundantly my garden bed ; 
and lo ! my brook became a river, and my 
river was turned into a sea." 

A pious youth, who felt himself called, 
while a student in college, to the work of a 
missionary, found, in breaking the ties of 
home and native land, that the strongest and 
most painful in its severance, was the one 
that bound him to a tender mother, bowed 
down with the affliction of blindness. Yet 
she resigned him to what she deemed the des- 
ignation of the Holy Spirit, and her sightless 
eyes were lifted in prayer, as she gave the 



136 ON INTERCESSORY PRAYER. 

parting blessing. Daring his long voyage on 
the stormy ocean, and in the rude huts of the 
heathen, where he spoke the name and the 
love of a Saviour, her image seemed ever 
beside him. A prominent theme of his fre- 
quent letters was to moderate her grief for his 
loss. 

" Dearest mother," he wrote, " I know you 
are often at the throne of grace, where you 
led me in my infant years. Now, when you 
kneel there, I entreat you not to supplicate 
for your son alone^ but for the children of 
others ; not only for the heathen among whom 
his lot is cast, but for other portions of our 
Lord's vineyard, and for other laborers also." 

Thus he sought to alleviate the mourning 
of the desolate, sightless mother whom he 
loved, by the exercise of an all-pervading char- 
ity, a self-sacrificing spirit, carried not only 
into daily duty, but into the secrecy of com- 
munion with G-od. A deep religious expe- 
rience taught this young disciple, that the 
strong anguish of the soul is best alleviated 
by seeking the welfare of other souls. 



ON INTERCESSORY PRAYER, 137 

We have together admired in the pages of 
the Book Divine, the pathetic and poetical 
delineation of the sorrows of the patriarch 
Job. At its close, we read that " the Lord 
turned his captivity." 

When was it turned ? When he lamented 
in the bitterness of his soul, and cast male- 
dictions on the day of his birth? When he 
deplored with such touching eloquence the 
frailty of man, " born of a woman, who hath 
but a few days to live, and is full of vanity ? 
— who Cometh forth like a flower and is cut 
down, who fleeth also like a shadow and con- 
tinueth not ?" When kindling into boldness, 
almost arrogant, he exclaimed to the Omnip- 
otent,—" Show me wherefore thou contend- 
est with me, and countest me as an enemy ?" 
No. Neither to his complaints, his eloquence, 
or his despair, was the gift accorded. The 
deliverance came '^ivhen he prayed P 

And for whom did he pray ? For himself? 
That the crushing weight of adversity might 
be removed? his rifled wealth restored? his 

fearful desolations rebuilt ? and the contempt 

12# 



138 ON INTERCESSORY PRAYER. 

that wounded his heart, softened into sym- 
pathy ? No. " The Lord turned the captiv- 
ity of Job, ivhen he prayed for his friends.''^ 

Beautiful lesson ! Let us not fail to learn 
it. When he prayed for his friends. Sweet 
will that duty be to y^i, my loved ones, 
whose hearts by the promptings of affection, 
and the pursuits of knowledge, have been so 
brought into unison. Be equally faithful, 
when in the school of a future life any of your 
number are found worthy of promotion to what 
has been wisely designated, as those " higher 
studies^ miscalled adversities.^^ Then spread 
their sorrows as if they were you own, to the 
ear of Perfect Love. Plead that each of your 
dear companions may lose no portion of the 
good that was intended by a Father's disci- 
pline. For it is a great loss to lose an affliction. 

Intercede daily for them, as for yourselves. 
A day without prayer, is life that hath no life 
in it. Constant intercourse with the wise, in- 
creases wisdom, and with the good, deepens a 
desire of imitation. But the wisdom and good- 
ness of the best of mankind, have bounds and 



ON INTERCESSORY PRAYER. 139 

infirmities. One Being alone is, in his glori- 
ous attributes, infinite and unchangeable. To 
be pei-mitted to approach Him, with confi- 
dence and intimacy, is an unspeakable privilege. 
To hold unbroken communion with Him, must 
be in some measure to partake of His spirit. 

Not alone at those seasons when the reflect- 
ing mind turns spontaneously to Him, at the 
birth of day, or the slumber of night, not alone 
at the appointed periods of Sabbath-worship, 
or sacred festival, but in the solitude of the 
soul, at all times, and in every place, by ejac- 
ulation, or voiceless thought, cultivate inter- 
course with Him, and say, — " My Grod I be 
near us." 

Thus, in the arms of faith and prayer, con- 
tinue to bear up all who are dear to you, until 
the great ends of this our pilgrimage being 
accomplished, you shall have no longer need 
to ask, — having received what the world can- 
not give, — nor to seek, — having found en- 
trance to the society of an " innumerable com- 
pany of angels, and the spirits of the just 
made perfect." 



Almost unutterable emotions oppress me, 
beloved ones, as I look upon you this day, for 
the last time. Can it be so? The last time, 
did I say ? — The mind refuses the idea. 

As I scan your affectionate group, I per- 
ceive the faces of some who first met me here, 
when as a stranger I began among yoii the 
work of education. Life-guards have you 
been to me, in all my needs ; sisters and 
friends to whom I have turned, not in vain, for 
a correct example, a strengthening sympathy. 
Often have I felt fervent gratitude that you, 
and others of our dear circle have been so 
long continued with me, that I might see 
clear indications of the good seed ripening for 
the harvest, and more permanently aid you in 
detecting the tares which are prone also to 



THE FAREWELL. 141 

spring among the wheat. When I compare 
you with what you were, five years since, I 
praise Him who hath given the soul its power 
of endless progression, and bade it bring forth 
fruit for immortality. Five years since ! I 
then stood before you with secret trembling. 
My heart, conscious of its own weakness, and 
of the weight of its trust, asked with jealous 
scrutiny, " Thou who hast such need to be 
taught thyself, art thou a teacher of others ? 

You knew not the painful diffidence that 
then oppressed me. Yet you were my con- 
forters. By sweet compliance with my wishes, 
and visible improvement in knowledge, you 
became my crown of rejoicing. At our first 
acquaintance, some of you were unconscious 
of your innate powers. Now, you readily com- 
pute and command your own intellectual 
forces ; what is difficult, you fearlessly van- 
quish ; what is intricate, you dissolve by pa- 
tience. I have long viewed you as my fellow- 
travellers. Ah I if we are no more to walk 
side by side, may we still keep that blessed 
road which terminates on the Hill of Zion. 



142 THE FAREWELL. 

Slacken not in your pursuit of whatever 
is true in principle, and beautiful in practice. 
Contend with indolence, with self-compla- 
cency, with that passion for ornament which 
would fain decorate the superstructure, leav- 
ing the foundation unstable and unsound. 
Cultivate self-knowledge, perseverance, piety. 
Leave nothing unsaid, or undone, that duty 
prompts. Every day plant, at least, one good 
deed in the garden of life. Though hidden 
or forgotten, it will revive. ''It may seem to 
be dead but it will sprout again, the tender 
branch thereof shall not cease." The seed of 
heaven is never lost. 

About to pass the threshold of an untried 
sphere of action, I shall still be mindful of 
your cause. New attachments, new cares, 
bright visions of happiness, will never obliter- 
ate my sympathy in your welfare, my desire 
for your improvement in all excellence. I can 
never meet you, without the cheering thought 
— '' There is one who has been to me a child, 
a sister, a friend." For we were a little com- 
munity whose bond and main-spring was love. 



THE FAREWELL. 143 

In language not to be mistaken, in the fond 
glance of the eye, the fervor of respectful at- 
tention, the fruitful inventions of tenderness, 
I have seen the depth and constancy of your 
regard. The interchange of affection has so 
lightened my labors, that when some have 
pitied me under what they deemed the pres- 
sure of fatigue, or while contending with the 
wild blast, or wintry storm, accounted me but 
as a worn and wearied school-teacher, hasten- 
ing to be punctual to the appointed hours of 
toil, my heart has been rapturously exclaim- 
ing, — " How good and how pleasant it is, to 
serve those who dwell together in unity." 
Oh ! continue to love each other, when I shall 
be taken from you. Make some other in- 
structress as happy as you have made me. 

Yet when I turn from you to myself, mourn- 
ful reflections oppress me. When I think of 
the immense influence of education upon indi- 
vidual character upon social energies, upon 
the welfare of future generations, and the 
destinies of eternity, when I realize that this 
fearful instrument has been entrusted to my 



144 . THE FAREWELL. 

hand, and that its application was faint, fee- 
ble and imperfect, when I remember what I 
might have done for you, and see how much. 
is left undone, I feel the bitterness of com- 
punction, and take refuge alone in that Inter- 
cessor who hath compassion on our infirmities. 
May we stand at last before our Judge, in the 
robe of His righteousness, and may not one of 
this united band fail of entering the mansions 
which He has prepared for those that love 
Him. 

Methinks, I hear, mingled with rising sighs, 
the whispered question, " When shall we meet 
again ?" Ah ! when I and ivhere I 

The wearied sun may journey toward the west, 
Inspiring morn renew her rosy charms, 

The changeful earth by fiow'ry spring be drest, 
Or sink to sleep in winter's snowy arms, 

Days, months, and seasons, in their courses move, 
The sih'er orb of night increase and wane, 

Impetuous time roll on his mighty tide, 
But never bring us all to meet again. 

Revolving years may steal that youthful grace, 
Stay the light step in its elastic tread, 



THE FAREWELL. 145 

Care, on your brows impress a furrow'd trace, 
And age his honors on your temples shed, 

Unceasing change may mark our earthly lot, 
Bid strangers, foes, or wandering tribes to meet, 

Yet never more to this delightful spot 
Conduct again our long-accustom'd feet. 

When next we all shall meet^ the hopes and joys 
That hold our spirits in their airy sway. 

Life's fleeting visions, and delusive toys, 

And Time's probation shall have past away ; 

Death and obHvion, in their witherinof flio-ht. 
On this frail globe enstamp their sable seal. 

And dread eternity's unfading light 

Illume that Bar, from whence is no appeal. 

Hoiv shall we meet at that decisive day. 

Ah ! who can ask without a trembling heart ? 

Ah who can wish and yet forbear to pray. 
For a blest home in heaven no more to part. 

No more to part ! Oh ! catch the blissful sound. 

To dwell where sin and sorrow ne'er annoy. 
To range forever one celestial bound. 

And strike the same seraphic harp of^joy. 

So, let us live as those who seek to gain 
The full fruition of this faith sublime. 

And with a Christian's constancy sustain 
The hght afflictions of this changeful clime, 
13 



146 THE FAREWELL. 

With songs of praise each cup of mercy share, 
With earnest hand each duteous task perform, 

As those who see the unerring Father's care, 
Appoint the sunbeam and control the storm. 

Then, shall blest memory, with her halcyon power. 
Retouch past scenes and cherish'd joys renew. 

And the pure spirit of each well-spent hour, 
O'er life and death, unfading garlands strew. 

Fain would I linger yet longer, my precious 
ones, among these treasured recollections, but 
fate summons us away. Fain would I give 
utterance to thronging thoughts, to precepts 
oft repeated, yet never enough enforced. But 
there is no more time. The blessed season 
when it was my part to teach, and yours to 
listen, is past, never to return. Henceforth I 
can only say, — Remember the sweet counsel 
that we have here taken together. Remember ! 

Now, is the bright chain of our intercourse 
sundered. Bind to your loving hearts its links, 
broken, yet beautiful. Engrave there, also, 
as with a diamond's point, the glorious motto, 
" G-ive diligence, to be found at last, in peace, 
without spot, and blameless." 



SECOND PART. 



The ruling tastes of the mind, are revealed 
by its reveries. Could the inner life of indi- 
viduals be scanned, it might be found, that 
the strong aspirations of childhood for any pur- 
suit or occupation, is often verified in future 
years. Whether the prevailing current of the 
mind helps to shape out its own course, and 
the strong will, smites down the barrier of op- 
posing circumstances, or whether the prefer- 
ence itself, is a sort of prediction, or prescience, 
or adaptation to future destinies, as " coming 
events cast their shadows before," we leave to 
more acute metaphysicians. 

Almost every one might, probably, in his 

own history trace some coincidences between 

his early-cherished anticipations, and his lot, 

like the venerable Mrs. Hannah More, whose 
10* 



150 MY SCHOOLS. 

favorite sport was on her coach made of a 
chair, to play "go up to London, and see 
bishops, and booksellers." 

My own predominant desire, lowly yet per- 
severing, and coeval with the earliest recollec- 
tions, was to keep a school. This furnished 
the principal drama of my reveries, and min- 
gling with snatches of song, and fragments of 
rhyme, that came I knew not whence, peopled 
and gave a voice to all solitude. For that sol- 
itude of the heart was mine, which is known 
only to those who have neither brother nor sis- 
ter, and who pass their tender years among 
old and grave people, from whom they may 
learn wisdom, but can scarcely expect sym- 
pathy. Therefore I made to myself ideal com- 
panions, with whom I held free and full child- 
ish communion. 

Such intervals of leisure as I could com- 
mand, for in those days, children were made 
industrious with the needle and knitting-nee- 
dles, as well as with their books, were much 
devoted to musings, and imaginary conversa- 
tions. "Wakeful periods on the couch were 



MY SCHOOLS. 151 

thus devoted, and that night was held blama- 
ble, which absorbed wholly in sleep those 
habitual contemplations. In the most cher- 
ished and vivid pencillings of fancy, I was 
ever installed in the authority and glory of 
a school-mistress, counselling, explaining, or 
awarding premiums, always listened to, re- 
garded and obeyed. And my scholars were 
all precocious, plastic, beautiful, and deserv- 
ing of distinction. 

Nor were those dreamings quite destitute of 
utility. As they created a deeper indwelling 
in the profession which I had secretly chosen, 
they gave also some practical preparation for 
it. "When old enough to become a pupil, and 
inclined to question, as beginners are prone to 
do, where can be the necessity of so many 
studies and such tiresome repetitions, a bright 
vision, that they might be useful to my own 
scholars gleamed before me, dispelling scepti- 
cism, and putting weariness to flight. If an 
abstruse problem, or intricate Latin idiom, 
perplexed comprehension, and put childish 
patience at a stand, the thought that tliis 



152 MY SCHOOLS. 

knowledge would be expected of me, when 
I became a teacher, infused new energy and 
a conquering courage. 

My school-days were eminently happy, and 
stimulated by an unslumbering ambition to 
excel. My first initiation into the mysteries 
of scholastic lore was at the age of four ; at 
a district school of some seventy members. 
Among my strongest recollections of that pe- 
riod, are the sternness of the teacher, to whose 
face I dared not lift my eyes, and the altitude 
of the older pupils. Especially the broad- 
shouldered boys, as they graciously made 
room for me, when sometimes I passed them 
in detachments, on my way to the head of 
the spelling-class, seemed to my wondering 
eyes capable of bearing the burdens of Atlas, 
or performing the exploits of Hercules. Or- 
thography was in those days a prominent 
branch of education, earnestly enforced, and 
hedged round by the ambition of " going up," 
and the disgrace of ''going down." I have 
doubted whether it was as thoroughly taught 
in modern times. 



MY SCHOOLS. 153 

As I advanced in age, the course of study- 
was interspersed by occasional attendance at 
schools where the skilful uses of the needle, 
in application to necessary as well as orna- 
mental fabrics, were taught with precision 
and elegance. These attainments ought never, 
I think, to be omitted in the culture of our 
sex, entering visibly as they do, into feminine 
duty, respectability and happiness. During 
the two last years of tutelage, my privileges 
were greatly enhanced, being enrolled among 
the twenty-five members of a select school, 
under the charge of gentlemen of high eru- 
dition, and earnest piety. The improvement 
of our classes, in the various sciences, was 
well-founded and rapid. Our text-books were 
comparatively inferior, for the most gifted 
men had not then bowed with surpassing be- 
nevolence to simplify the rudiments of learn- 
ing. Such also was the distant and dignified 
style of association between the instructor 
and the instructed, that to request explanation 
was not common. I cannot remember, in the 
whole course of my education ever venturing 



154 MY SCHOOLS. 

to ask of any teacher the solution of difficulty 
in my lessons. One principal cause of this, 
on my own part, was great constitutional dif- 
fidence ; and another, the enthusiastic homage 
which I cherished for teachers and their office ; 
counting them but " a little lower than the 
angels," and feeling sufficiently honored by 
being permitted to reply to their questions, 
without seeking to add any remark, or sug- 
gestion of my own. 

Some advantage was derived even from the 
barrenness of our text-books, and the ceremoni- 
ous modes of intercourse, for being able to dis- 
cover no " royal road" to knowledge, we became 
in a measure our own pioneers ; and the young 
mind thus inured to toil and self-reliance 
gathered vigor and acquaintance with its own 
capacities. We were also strongly stimulated 
by emulation. I now recall with fresh pleas- 
ure, the intense industry of that period of 
life, when after the close study of a long 
winter evening, my books were laid under the 
pillow at retiring, as sentinels, lest the newly- 
acquired ideas should chance to escape. They 



MY SCHOOLS. 155 

were also consulted with the dawning light, if 
in the solitary recitation of lessons, to myself 
as a teacher, aught of doubt or hesitation oc- 
curred. Such was my respect for my older 
school-master, as well as the preceptor, that a 
mistake in their presence would have been a 
stigma scarcely to be endured. On the pre- 
miums for scholarship, and rewards of merit 
that were offered, I fixed my eye with an in- 
tenseness of effort that knew no repose ; and 
if they were gained, whether medals, books, 
or written certificates, I was fain to receive 
them with an overflow of tears ; for notwith- 
standing my efforts had known no remission, 
I could not convince myself, but what the 
reward was a kind gift from the teacher, 
rather than worthily won. 

This halcyon period of existence was but 
too short. My parents having been forewarned 
by some well-meaning friends, that my profi- 
ciency in study, which they were pleased to 
say, was already more than sufficient for a 
woman, would create distaste for the duties 
that eventually devolve on our sex, withdrew 



156 MY SCHOOLS. 

me from school, at the age of thirteen, when 
in the full tide of improvement. This well- 
intended policy, which took the form of severe 
disappointment, disclosed in the end some of 
the sweet uses of adversity. Having the un- 
divided use of a pleasant chamber, and access 
to good authors, I took a wider range of 
history and literature, than any school to 
which I could have access allowed ; and the 
cheerful aid rendered to my mother, in her 
household cares, was so mingled with the 
solace of the pen, that a new, and more fruit- 
ful growth of happiness, like fresh verdure, 
overspread the garden of life. 

Yet there came upon me, with my next 
birth-day, another sorrow, my first great grief, 
the death of a venerable lady, who, from my 
dawn of being, had seemed to me the pattern 
and exemplar of all lovely and hallowed 
things. I refer to Madam Jerusha Lathrop, 
the daughter of Grovernor Talcott of Hartford, 
and widow of Dr. Daniel Lathrop of Norwich. 
She possessed high intellectual tastes, and 
many accomplishments, which with all lowli- 



MY SCHOOLS. 157 

ness of soul she laid at the feet of Jesus, that 
she might learn His word. My parents being 
tenants of a part of her mansion, it was my 
blessing to be born under her roof, and to 
share in some measure that tender affection, 
once borne for her own children, three promis- 
ing sons, of whom she was early, and sud- 
denly bereaved. Advanced age had marked 
her features ere I beheld them, for she was 
fourscore and eight at the time of her death, 
yet to me she was beautiful, and I have ever 
loved for her sake the brow crowned with sil- 
ver hairs. 

One of the bright traces on the opening 
scroll of life, is that of listening to her rich 
vocal music, seated upon her knee, or in a 
little green arm-chair, at her feet. I was 
also happy to be permitted to read aloud to 
her, being able to begin that exercise at the 
age of three, and though the rich mass of 
juvenile literature that now greets the unfold- 
ing mind was then a terra incognita, received 
with gratitude, whatever antique tome she 

was pleased to give me from that highly- 
14 



158 MY SCHOOLS. 

polished mahogany cabinet, whose hidden 
treasures were to me like the promised land. 
Hervey's Meditations, Young's Night Thoughts, 
or the Discourses of Sherlock and Tillotson, 
were alike welcomed, because she chose them ; 
for her elucidations and love made all authors 
delightful. 

From her affluence and position in society, 
she desired to derive no other distinction than 
that of a wider benevolence. It was my priv- 
ilege to see her daily transcript of the pro- 
prieties and harmonies of Christian life, and as 
I grew older, sometimes to be the almoner of 
her unresting charities. She was my first, 
best instructor ; for there is no teaching like 
that of a consistent, loving, holy example. 

I may be in danger of lingering too long 
amid these tender recollections. Yet ere I 
part from them, I would fain renew the trib- 
ute of gratitude to all my revered instructors. 
Though most of them are resting in their 
graves, the benefits they have conferred are 
not limited by time, any more than the ethe- 



MY SCHOOLS. 159 

real soul is bound to this speck and span of 
mortal existence. 

The scenery of Norwich, my native place, 
was unique and romantic. Especially so, to 
me, was that of the upper, or old town, where 
I first saw the light, every spot of which is 
replete with unfading associations. There, 
rough gray rocks towered in patriarchal ma- 
jesty, sparkling streamlets ran, like molten 
silver, between fringes of green, and the placid 
Yantic suddenly whitened into a foaming cat- 
aract. G-rove and forest poured forth in super- 
flux of melody, the sweet rent that their 
winged tenants paid; and sunny dells that 
tenderly nursed the flower-people, in their 
" coats of many colors," strove long to shelter 
them from frost, as the Jewish parents hid 
their endangered blossoms from a tyrant king. 
Early gardens yielded their riches to slight 
culture, and multitudes of fruit-trees m^ade 
the turf a tessellated carpet, when the vernal 
breeze swept from the branches their fragrant 
petals. Plains overshadowed by elms of broad 
circumference, gave fair sites for tasteful man- 



160 MY SCHOOLS. 

sions, while here and there, a cottage home 
perched Jike a bird's-nest among the cliffs. 

And the people were worthy of their singu- 
larly beautiful locality : social, affectionate, 
of simple habits, not encumbering life with 
heartless ceremony, but impulsive to the 
claims of friendship, or the tides of sympathy. 
Diligence and moderate expenditure were 
then counted respectable, and age and consti- 
tuted authority held in reverence. 

There was among them, half a century 
since, an admitted aristocracy, whose influ- 
ence of wealth and family was sanctioned by 
high morality, and regard for religion. But 
the predominant grade of society was a well- 
educated mediocrity, which, avoiding the cares 
of wealth, and the temptations of poverty, re- 
tained the luxury of benevolence, yet found 
that luxury so dependent on the industry that 
promotes health and the economy that is but 
another name for justice, as to draw from 
the very law of its own existence the preser- 
vation of its virtues. This was the fortunate 
position of my own blessed parents, amid the 



MY SCHOOLS. 161 

idolatry of whose undivided love, youth flowed 
on, having '' its content most absolute." 

The desire of becoming a teacher, though 
long incorporated with my inmost thoughts, 
was still unrevealed in words. The absurdity 
of one who was scarcely more than a child 
in years or attainments, seeking to instruct 
others, seemed a ludicrous and blameable ar- 
rogance, which having no natural confidant 
of sister or brother, I hesitated to confess. 
But the wish, though unsustained by aid of 
counsel or sympathy, remained unimpaired: 
and when at length discovered by my parents, 
through the pages of a journal, they hastened 
to gratify it. One of their pleasantest apart- 
ments was immediately fitted up, with desks, 
benches, and hour-glass, etc., and there I, 
with two fair young pupils, from the most 
respectable and wealthy families in the vicin- 
ity, saw on a small scale the fulfilment of 
my anticipations. Six hours I daily spent 
with them, questioning, explaining, and en- 
forcing, as though a large class were profiting 

by my labors. At the close of the term, an 
14* 



162 MY SCHOOLS. 

examination was held of the studies pursued, 
on which the invited friends pronounced a ver- 
dict of entire satisfaction. 

Those who should balance this initiatory 
seas6n, with its gain of money, or fame, 
might style it unprofitably and vainly spent. 
Not so. It enabled me to learn something of 
the positive toils and patient details requisite 
in teaching, which sometimes check the en- 
thusiasm with which it is at a distance con- 
templated by the castle-builder. My love not 
only stood the test, but struck a deeper root 
in the soil of reality. The time with my 
gentle companions had passed agreeably, and 
though the employment was temporarily in- 
termitted, it remained as much as ever an ob- 
ject of preference. 

I had a friend of my own age, lovely and 
beloved, a sketch of whose biography will be 
found at the 66th page of this volume. Our 
intimacy commenced during the last year of 
our continuance at school, and was destined 
to know no shadow, save that of the sunder- 
ing grave. In the course of our communica- 



MY SCHOOLS- 163 

tions, it was found that unexpected reverses 
and additional claims on the fortune of her 
family had induced in her a desire for use- 
fulness, and a determination to become a 
teacher. Our plans were immediately blend- 
ed, as our sympathies had been before ; and 
as it was deemed expedient that we should 
devote more attention to certain accomplish- 
ments then counted essential in the polishing 
process of female education, we left home to 
practise drawing, painting in water-colors, 
and embroidery in silks, at the schools of a 
larger city. Six months under several teach- 
ers sufficed to accommodate ourselves, in these 
respects, to the taste of the times. At our re- 
turn we were thronged with applications for 
instruction, and immediately commenced a 
school together, on the beautiful Plains, be- 
tween the northern and southern sections of 
Norwich. There we became fellow-boarders 
in the pleasant mansion of the only sister of 
my friend, and second self. 

Our first entrance upon the duties of our 
profession, amid an array of observant faces, 



164 MY SCHOOLS. 

most of them entire strangers, was to young 
and sensitive spirits, somewhat appalling. 
Yet we endeavored to gird ourselves with a 
proper authority, and none knew our heart- 
flutterings, save ourselves. 

To me, there had been so long an indwell- 
ing in the subject, that it seemed almost as a 
twice-told tale. But my sweet companion, nur- 
tured amid the refinements and expectations 
of wealth, had more to overcome. A code of 
rules which I had meditated in my childhood, 
and whose nucleus had been of old, rehearsed 
to my dolls, with the self-satisfaction of Jus- 
tinian, was remodelled and adapted to the oc- 
casion. They had been often mentally revised 
and collated, while unwritten, by a compari- 
son with the discipline of schools where I was 
a pupil : and proving in a great measure ap- 
propriate to our needs, did us good service. 

The system wliich we established was sim- 
ple and delightful. As sisters, we entered 
our school every morning, and after the devo- 
tional exercises with wliich it statedly com- 
menced £md closed, one of us took the seat of 



MY SCHOOLS. 165 

supreme arbiter, and the other, among the 
pupils, where seeming to mingle in their pur- 
suits and sympathies, she secretly guided 
them by her example, to order, and obedience. 
The following day this arrangement was re- 
versed, so that each was alternately principal 
and assistant, ruler and ruled. 

Every evening we compared in confidential 
discourse the result of our investigations, tak- 
ing counsel for the reform of such as needed 
it, and for the welfare of all. Perhaps the 
union of two minds was as entire as possible, 
and while a double force was thus concen- 
trated for action, each in spreading a shield 
over the breast of her friend, seemed to guard 
more perfectly her own. 

But our office was no sinecure. Our num- 
erous scholars were of various ages and degree 
of improvement, some, indeed, older than our- 
selves, and others too young to derive the full 
benefit of our system. The range of studies 
was sufficiently extensive, and as we required 
accuracy, and encouraged inquiry, it was 
sometimes necessary to review with each 



166 MY SCHOOLS. 

other the more difficult recitations, and al- 
ways to have the knowledge that we pos- 
sessed, prepared for ready utterance. The 
hour devoted to writing, was one of earnest 
manual labor, for engraved copy-slips were 
not common, and metallic pens unknown. 
As we attached high value to fair chirog- 
raphy, and wished our scholars to possess it, 
the business of setting copies, making and 
mending pens, and overlooking so many wri- 
ters, among whom one of us was continually 
walking, involved no slight muscular fatigue. 
Indeed, I secretly doubted the superiority of 
our manipulations with the knife and goose- 
quill, inasmuch as the latter utensil was so 
frequently returned to our hands for further 
medication, and it was scarcely to be sup- 
posed that all our zealous scribes were unrea- 
sonably fastidious. 

But the afternoons, being devoted to orna- 
mental branches, were still more onerous. 
There was the supervision of fancy-work, the 
brilliant filagree from its first inception ; the 
countless shades of emhroidery ; the move- 



MY SCHOOLS. 163^ 

merits of pencil and paint-brush from the sim- 
plest flower to the landscape, the group and 
*' the human face divine ;" the nameless vari- 
eties of wrought muslin, which then entered 
extensively into the feminine wardrobe ; and 
also the fitting of what was called plain- 
work, comprising the elaborate construction 
of fine linen shirts, with their appendant ruf- 
fles. We soon perceived that our policy was 
to appear ignorant of nothing, though young 
as we were, there were not a few things which 
we attempted to teach, in which we had little 
experience and less congeniality. Still a deep 
interest in the welfare of our scholars, which 
they repaid with affectionate attentions, and 
our own all-pervading, unswerving friendship, 
solaced every toil. In process of time, what 
was at first laborious, became easy, and what 
was irksome, pleasant. 

The principal drawback to the happiness 
of our vocation, was the loneliness of our pa- 
rents, who languished for our society. Sun- 
day, with the close of Saturday, was the only 
period during the week that we could spend 



168 MY SCHOOLS. 

with them ; and our home-partings, on Mon- 
day morning, especially if we left aught of 
indisposition there, cast a shadow over our 
spirits. To obviate, as far as possible, the in- 
convenience to those whom we felt it our 
duty, above all created beings, to comfort, 
and assist, we decided, during the second 
year of our teaching, that each should take 
the sole charge for a week, and spend the 
alternate one under the parental roof. 

My friend was to continue as formerly, a 
boarder, during her week of regency, but I 
determined to pass my nights at home, the 
health of my mother not being perfect. Om- 
nibuses, and the accommodations of the livery- 
stable, being then unknown in that region, 
the only alternative if the plan were pursued, 
would be a daily walk of somewhat more than 
four miles. It was censured by many as im- 
prudent, inasmuch as the new school-house 
which we had taken was at a considerably 
greater distance from home than our former 
locality. It was in the southern division of 
Chlesea, where, seated on a commanding de- 



MY SCHOOLS. 169 

clivity, its windows boldly overlooked the 
windings of the beautiful Thames. Upheld 
by strong filial motives, I persisted in what 
was called my Quixotic enterprise, and think 
I was never, at any period of my life, more 
perfectly happy. 

A morning walk of two miles, imparted 
such vigor, that the cares of a large school 
were unfelt. At noon, my dinner, consisting 
of two or three biscuits which I had brought 
from home, was made when the weather was 
fine beneath some spreading trees, in the 
grounds, at the rear of the building ; and at 
night, the thought of waiting, welcoming pa- 
rents seemed to bear me over the intervening 
distance as on the pinions of a bird. In 
severe storms, I was indebted to friends for 
some other mode of conveyance, but at other 
times found that amount of exercise but a 
new source of pleasure, which, combining with 
an occupation that I loved, gave elasticity to 
the spirits, and energy to the constitution. 

Still, such an effort could not be continued 

during the inclement seasons. My friend also 
15 



170 MY SCHOOLS. 

was not well satisfied with our divorced state, 
and divided toil. Less deeply imbued by- 
nature with the love of teaching, than the 
silent pleasures of intellectual pursuit, she felt 
peculiarly the need of that daily, strengthen- 
ing, confidential intercourse in which we both 
delighted as the solace of our labors. There- 
fore, on the approach of v/inter, we were in- 
duced to discontinue our school at Chelsea, in 
conformity to the wishes of our parents, v/ho 
considered its pecuniary gains no equivalent 
for their sacrifice of our society and aid, and 
the absence of the " one, young face, and the 
daughter's voice," from their lone fireside. 
Still, we left not our occDpation without 
regret. It had awakened a sincere attach- 
ment, and we considered ourselves fortunate 
to have so frequently found that attachment 
reciprocal. It would seem also to have been 
long held in favoring remembrance, as forty 
years after the commencement of that school 
it is thus mentioned by one of its members, 
the accomplished authoress of the Histories 
of Norwich, and of New-London : — 



MY SCHOOLS. 171 

*' A class of young ladies, in their native 
city, gathered joyfully around Miss Huntley 
and Miss Hyde, and into this circle they cast 
not only the affluence of their well-stored 
minds, and the cheering inspiration of youth- 
ful zeal, but all the strength of the best and 
holiest principles. Animated, blooming, happy, 
linked affectionately arm in arm, they daily 
came in among their pupils, diffusing cheer- 
fulness and love, as well as knowledge, and 
commanding the most grateful attention and 
respect. Interesting teachers ! happy pupils ! 
Pleasant is it to the writer to review those 
dove-like days, to recall the lineaments of that 
diligent, earnest, mind-expanding group, and 
again to note the oneness of sentiment, opin- 
ion and affection, between those whom we 
delighted to call our sweet sister-teachers, the 
inseparables, the inimitables. Who would not 
wish to have been a teacher of the young. 
With how many hearts and histories does it 
connect one's own existence." 

Cherished by my beloved coadjutor, and 
myself, were the memories of that school, 



172 MY SCHOOLS. 

mingled as they were with the romantic sce- 
nery of our beautiful native place. Among 
those who composed it, were many possessed 
of superior talents, and great loveliness of 
character. To one of this number, smitten 
in the bloom of youth, the following simple 
and just tribute of affection was paid, — 

With spirits radiant as the summer-sky 
To glow like sunbeam on the dazzled eye, 
In childhood's dawn, with tenderness to rear 
The deep affections ardent and sincere, 
To taste the joys of youth's unclouded ray, 
Early to bloom, and early fleet away, — 
This was thy lot, dear child, for still a name 
So fond, so sweet, my spirit fain would claim, 
As pensive, with a mourner's hand I lay 
This cypress garland on thy turf-wrapp'd clay, 
Happy, at last, to gain yon blissful height, 
And be thy sister, in a realm of light. 

The leisure acquired by retirement from an 
absorbing vocation was divided among various 
pursuits. In the knowledge of household em- 
ployments, for which I had great respect, and 
where the occasionally delicate health of my 
mother required active assistance, I desired to 



MY SCHOOLS. 173 

become an adept, and therefore cultivated 
that interested and habitual practice without 
which it is so difficult to excel. 

The state of society in my native place was 
eminently marked by intelligence, affability, 
and warmth of heart, and its claims, so allur- 
ing to youth, I met with great satisfaction. 
"While I entered with zeal and delight into 
those social pleasures, to which youthful spir- 
its give zest, portions of each day were sys- 
tematically secured for writing, reading, and 
a review of studies, particularly of philosophy, 
and ancient and modern history. I paid also 
some attention to various languages, and be- 
gan to dig a few Hebrew roots, with no guide 
but Parkhurst. 

Still, habits of teaching seemed essential to 
mental health ; and as a sort of substitute for 
the employment so recently laid aside, I pro- 
cured a large room at a neighboring house, 
and every Saturday, gave gratuitous instruc- 
tion to all who were disposed to attend. My 
principal object was the religious culture of 

poor children, the institution of Sunday-schools 
15* 



174 MY SCHOOLS. 

not having then commenced in our land. 
When it was discovered that books were dis- 
tributed, and also other articles to the neces- 
sitous, my apartment was thronged ; and as 
the happiness of a teacher does not depend 
wholly upon the high erudition of his pupils, 
I found much gratification in this humble 
sphere of action. 

One of my favorite classes was of sable hue. 
I was quite interested in my dark-browed 
people, who were very grateful for common 
attentions, and as most of them w^ere young, 
and intellectually untrained, I felt no little 
pride in their progress. Bat sometimes this 
exultation was destined to a downfall. One 
day, for instance, when recapitulating ex- 
planations of the sermon on the Mount, which 
had been oft-times repeated, and were, I had 
flattered myself, admirable for simplicity, I 
asked what they understood by the " alms" 
which our Saviour commanded should not be 
done to be seen of men. Whereat they 
promptly and joyously replied, " G-uns, pis- 
tols, clubs, and such like." I humbled my- 



MY SCHOOLS. I7i 

self for the ignorance of my disciples, as an 
instructor oug^lit. 

Amid these agreeable pursuits and home- 
satisfactions, a year and a half, glided away. 
Poetry was becoming a predominant pleasure ; 
yet mingling with its bright illusions came 
sometimes the floatincr vision of a model- 
school, where full space should be allowed to 
carry out my cherished system, and to im- 
plant lasting affections. And that vision drew 
near, and when I least expected it, took the 
form of reality. 

Being invited by the Wadsworth family, 
relatives of my earliest friend and benefac- 
tress, Madame Lathrop, to visit them in Hart- 
ford, while enjoying their elegant hospitality, 
and prosecuting, through their kindness, my 
French studies, under a distinguished native 
teacher, I received a proposal again to engage 
in the work of education. Nothing could 
have been more congenial to my wishes. 
The only obstacle to be surmounted was the 
reluctance of my parents to consent to a pro- 
tracted absence. But a new and powerful 



176 MY SCHOOLS. 

motive had arisen in my mind, that of enlarg- 
ing their limited income by my own exertions, 
and relieving their minds from all pecuniary 
anxiety. Though their mode of life was in 
their apprehension entirely consistent wdth 
comfort, I desired that they might feel free to 
indulge in a larger expenditure, and that the 
change should come only from a daughter's 
hand. To be thus accepted as the sole instru- 
ment of cheering their advancing years, be- 
came an overruling, passionate desire. Here 
was a providential opening for the accomplish- 
ment of such a desire. I urged my suit in 
letters, and prevailed. 

Deeds of disinterested kindness were among 
the records of the daily life of Daniel Wads- 
worth, Esq., through whose advice and influ- 
ence I was induced to commence my school 
in Hartford. Never can I recall or mention 
without intense gratitude, the efforts made by 
him, and his excellent lady, the possessor of 
an angelic spirit, and a pattern of all loveli- 
ness, to encourage and sustain me in my new 
station; while in the mansion of their ven- 



MY SCHOOLS. 177 

erable mother, who was distinguished by de- 
cided intellectual tastes, and knowledge of 
human nature, it was my privilege to find a 
home. 

That a man of great wealth, a munificent 
patron of the fine arts, and literature, whose 
merits he well understood, — engaged in beauti- 
fying his extensive domain of Monte- Video, 
which was thrown open as a pleasure-ground 
to all the people, — the founder of our Athe- 
neum with its noble library, historical archives, 
and gallery of paintings, and sculpture, bear- 
ing his name to future generations, — should 
assume the humble, yet arduous labor of 
gathering a school, and the minute details 
requisite to its accommodation, might seem 
surprising to those not familiar with the daily 
history of his life of philanthropy. 

In his choice of pupils, he kept constantly 
in view similarity of attainments and station, 
so that all might be enabled in the prescribed 
studies, to go on as one class, and being the 
children of parents who visited in the same 
circle, might be supposed to have feelings and 



178 MY SCHOOLS. 

habits more in unison. This principle of 
selection diminished not only the difficulty of 
organization and the amount of daily labor on 
the part of the instructor, but from the in- 
structed, removed those causes of disparity, 
which sometimes create suspicion, and check 
the growth of friendship. 

Fifteen scholars were my limited number 
for the first year, which afterwards, when the 
system became tested and established, was 
extended to twenty-five, without increase of 
toil. A beautiful apartment was provided for 
us, which we aimed to keep with parlor-neat- 
ness, tolerating no drops of ink, or litter of 
papers, or disarrangement of articles from 
their allotted places. In the various studies, 
application and accuracy were required of all. 
Our rules, which savored somewhat of the an- 
cient regime, keeping in view the principle 
that strictness prevents severity, were received 
in the spirit of unity and love. Each one 
seemed to realize that order and industry 
were essential to the ends for which as a 
body politic wg held existence, and that in 



MY SCHOOLS. 179 

maintaining discipline, they preserved both 
its health and its life. The honor of the 
school was counted their own, and the time 
spent there, was but another name for happi- 
ness. How often, when the duties of the day- 
were closed, and the period of dismission had 
arrived, if our course of study had been pecu- 
liarly interesting, or peculiarly difficult, would 
they gather closely around me, for conversa- 
tion or explanation, while the gentle entreaty, 
*' stay a little longer,'' was so imperative, that 
the dark, wintry twilight shut over us, ere we 
were aware. Oh ! sweet spirits, and pure, 
and touched with the love of all goodness, it 
was blessed to dwell among them, and the 
five years thus spent, is a sunny spot amid 
life's changeful pilgrimage. 

It was the wish of the patrons of the school 
that the ornamental branches should be omit- 
ted, and the time of their children devoted to 
a thorough and somewhat extensive course of 
study. The patience, and perseverance to 
which they were easily led, soon secured re- 
spectable, and sometimes rapid progress. Es- 



180 MY SCHOOLS. 

pecially was it interesting to unfold with them 
the wide annal of history. Even now, I seem 
to hear their softly modulated voices applaud- 
ing deeds of nobleness and generosity, or ex- 
pressing surprise that the great were so sel- 
dom good, or amazement at the artifice, the 
revenge, the cruelty, that sometimes stained 
those whom fame pronounced illustrious. 

In our division of the year, short terms and 
short vacations were deemed best by the pa- 
rents for the health of the children, and their 
eventual improvement. Each of these termi- 
nating periods was marked by the distribu- 
tion of premiums for distinguished scholar- 
ship, and meritorious deportment. The infu- 
sion of this hope, and the consciousness of the 
pleasure that a meed thus earned would im- 
part to those most dear, gave daily strength 
to their young hearts to overcome indolence 
and error, and advance in the path of excel- 
lence. The course by which the promised 
rewards were to be attained was so clearly 
defined, as to leave no room for imputation of 
partiality on the teacher ; and so fixed was 



MY SCHOOLS. 181 

their habit of rejoicing in the happiness of 
their companions, that the jealousies and 
strifes which are said to accompany emula- 
tion, found no entrance to their charmed circle. 

Sometimes, when the claims of candidates 
were so nearly equal, that scarce a shade of 
difference remained, this amiable principle 
was brought forth in beautiful prominence. 

One instance I recollect, where, in efforts for 
a particular premium, two had through nearly 
the whole term, advanced side by side. Just 
at its close, there was a slight but clear indi- 
cation of precedence, and in conformity to 
this, at the appointed time, the honor was 
awarded. "When the class came forward, as 
was their custom, to congratulate her who 
had earned the distinction, she who had failed 
but a single step or two, in climbing the same 
arduous height, came also among them. Pos- 
sibly, a tear might for a moment moisten her 
eye, but hastening to embrace her fortunate 
companion, she said gracefully, in reference 
to a period of Grrecian history, recently re- 
viewed, — " Pedaratus, when he missed of a 
16 



182 MY SCHOOLS. 

place among the chosen three hundred, re- 
joiced that there were three hundred in Sparta 
better than himself." 

The tact and fidelity with which they ap- 
plied to their own concerns and practice, the 
maxims derived from history, or the precepts 
treasured from the Scriptures, were admira- 
ble. But their energy in combining works of 
benevolence with the pursuits of learning, 
was still more remarkable. Charitable im- 
pulses were first called into action, by a desire 
to supply deficiencies in the winter apparel of 
a class of poor children, to whom on Saturday 
afternoon, I gave religious instruction. Hav- 
ing thus tasted the pleasure of relieving and 
making others happy, the blessed principle 
sought expansion as naturally as the flame 
ascends. They formed themselves into a so- 
ciety, each member of which had liberty to 
propose any object which came within their 
proper sphere of action; and the almoners, 
who were chosen every month, heeded neither 
fatigue, nor cold, in the discharge of their al- 
lotted duty. 



MY SCHOOLS. 183 

I had not supposed the mind in its early- 
stages, (for the average ages of the pupils of 
the first year, ranged from nine to thirteen,) 
was so capable of the systematic arrangement, 
or the judicious economy of charity. In the 
construction of necessary garments to resist 
the inclement seasons, as well as in the alter- 
ation of such of their own as they were per- 
mitted to bestow, they were wonderfully in- 
dustrious and skilful. Cloaks, mantles, hoods, 
&c., proceeded from their flying fingers, as 
the needs of their little pensioners demanded. 
Nor were the sick, or the aged forgotten, in 
their mission of mercy, which, not being im- 
posed as a duty, but discovered to be a source 
of high happiness, was voluntarily pursued 
with unintermitted zeal. 

" Ah ! then what generous transport fill'd their breast, 
This truth first learned, — to bless, is to be blest." 

Still ascending in their scale of goodness, 
they adopted the sentiment that true charity 
should involve some sacrifice, and therefore 
decided to make the small contribution, which 



184 MY SCHOOLS. 

they had established on the first day of every 
month, the fruit of their own self-denial. 
They said, — " What charity is it in us, to give 
away the money of others ? We will earn it 
ourselves." But how was this to be done ? 
How could such young creatures in their sta- 
tion of society, render their industry avail- 
able ? How could they even obtain time for 
it, since their lessons were required to be 
studied at home, and the use of the needle, 
that natural utensil of female gain, did not 
enter among their authorized employments at 
school ? 

But not deterred by difficulties, they de- 
vised feasible plans without infringing on 
their course of study. After consultation 
with their mothers and friends, they were to 
assume some new charge in the domestic de- 
partment, or execute some piece of work, to 
wdiich a stipend should be annexed ; and if 
necessary, they were to rise an hour earlier in 
the morning to fulfil this engagement. At 
the first contribution after this arrangement 
took effect, observing their countenances to 



MY SCHOOLS. 185 

be highly animated with pleasure, I said, — 
** You have not cast into your Saviour's treas- 
ury that which cost you nothing." Their 
sweet reply was in the words of the Psalmist, 
*' Of thine own, Lord, have we given Thee ;" 
so meekly did they acknowledge their respon- 
sibility in all things to an Almighty Bene- 
factor. 

It was their endeavor to preserve as far as 
possible, the secrecy of charity. One of the 
written articles of their constitution is thus 
expressed : — " It is our design to impart our 
bounty without ostentation, following the ex- 
ample of Him who ' went about, doing good,' 
and not seeking the applause of men." I 
have reason to believe that they were strictly 
governed by this principle. Instances were 
sometimes related, where to the dark abodes 
of the sorrowing poor, little feet were heard 
entering, the light of fair faces for a moment 
beamed, relief suited to need was left, and 
then the mystic visitants, 

" Folding their tents like the Arabs, 

Would silently steal away." 

16* 



186 MY SCHOOLS. 

They were not weary in well-doing. They 
did not begin zealously, and remit their efforts 
when a little had been accomplished. During 
a period of somewhat less than two years and 
a half, I perceived by the records of their 
Secretary, that they had completed for the 
poor, 160 garments of different descriptions, 
some of which were altered or repaired from 
their own, with no little patience and judg- 
ment. This amount included 35 pair of warm 
stockings, fabricated without expense of time, 
during their school-readings of History. Sev- 
eral afternoons in the week were thus de- 
voted, each being accustomed to read an allot- 
ted portion, as an exercise both in elocution 
and of memory. When this was finished, and 
the book closed, each pupil gave in her own 
language, a synopsis of what she had herself 
read, and all were subjected to a series of 
critical questions on the substance of the whole, 
as preparatory to the review and written anal- 
ysis of all the studies of the week, which was 
made at its close. They were desirous of be- 
ing allowed the use of the knitting-needles, 



MY SCHOOLS. 187 

during these readings, and were anxious to 
give proof that their attention to study was 
not hindered by this quiet occupation, which 
had affinity with their purposes of benevo- 
lence. 

The only recess from study, during the 
term, was the afternoon of Saturday. This 
single precious period, especially in winter, 
when the needs of their pensioners were the 
greatest, they often requested permission to 
devote to the objects of their society. When 
on such occasions, I have sometimes entered 
the school-room, and found them there, busily 
devising how some garment might be best 
accommodated to its object, or some small 
amount rendered subservient to the greatest 
good, their eyes sparkling with the heart's 
best gladness, and their sweet-toned voices 
uttering its melody, I could not but hope that 
some pure, prompting seraph hovered near, 
and the secret orison fervently arose that the 
spirit of grace and consolation might ever rest 
upon them. And as education should not only 
impart useful knowledge, but gird us with 



188 MY SCHOOLS. 

armor for the highest and holiest purposes of 
existence, I could not but trust that the habits 
they were then forming, their sense of the 
value of time, their energy to overcome obsta- 
cles in the path of duty, their sisterly friend- 
ship, their disinterested benevolence, might 
continue with them unto the end. 

It may possibly be imagined that this zeal 
of charitable effort, which I have still not fully 
described, must have interfered with the legit- 
imate purpose and business of the school. It 
was not so. No portion of their duty as 
scholars was neglected, or remitted. Benevo- 
lence was pursued as a source of enjoyment. 
It found their minds as yet unoccupied with 
the exciting pleasures of a more advanced pe- 
riod of youth, and entering, formed a holy alli- 
ance with the knowledge that was taking root 
there. Each gave to the other new strength. 
They were easily convinced, of what it some- 
times takes a life-time to discover, that some 
sciences may be more attractive to ambition, 
more omnipotent over wealth, more in league 
with popular favor, but none is so essential 



MY SCHOOLS. 189 

to true happiness as the consciousness of do- 
ing good. 

I was happy to perceive in them not only 
the disposition to impart their gratifications, 
but to make their attainments in knowledge, 
subservient to utility. It was therefore no sur- 
prise to hear, in future years, that, as opportu- 
nity afforded, they were prompt to teach others, 
either in the Sunday-school, the household, or 
the licensed places of public instruction. 

One, amid the toils of a missionary beneath 
the sultry skies of Asia, while much engaged 
in the acquisition, and translation of varying 
languages, was assiduous in her labors as a 
teacher. Scarcely had she set her stranger- 
foot in Burmah, and ere her own permanent 
location was determined, she commenced a 
school for boys belonging to the English regi- 
ment. " My present number," she writes ex- 
ultingly, " is eighteen, and I have a new 
scholar almost every week." 

In her station at Rangoon, she established 
and personally taught two schools of native 
children. Her separation from them when 



190 MY SCHOOLS. 

her husband and herself were designated for 
.another part of the missionary field, she thus 
feelingly depicts, — 

''Our things had been all sent on board the 
vessel, before dinner, and when the house 
was clear, and the bustle over, the boys and 
girls all came into the room where I was, 
seated themselves on the mat, in a semicircle 
around me, and covering their faces with their 
hands, and bowing them to the ground, spoke 
their farewell words. It was too much. I 
burst into tears with them. They followed 
me to the wharf, where I left them weeping, 
and entering the boat, bade Rangoon adieu." 

After their transfer to Siam, she made such 
rapid progress in that new dialect, as almost 
immediately to begin an adult school, for her 
own sex, beside assuming the burden of open- 
ing in her house, a boarding-school for boys. 

" I study Siamese daily with my teacher," 
she writes, "and attend to my pupils at home. 
Also, I visit two or three times a week a day- 
school, which I have established at some dis- 
tance from our dwelling." Amid the con- 



MY SCHOOLS. 191 

struction of lexicons, and the cares of a 
mother, she found time to teach with tender 
patience, the ignorant little ones of pagan 
Asia. 

Another of our band of scholars has, in the 
beautiful region of our own broad, green West, 
faithfully superintended the education of 
young ladies in her own house, with incalcu- 
lable benefit to them, and to society. Twenty- 
five is her stated number, and the motives 
that prompted, and still sustain the laudable 
enterprise, are unfolded in familiar correspon- 
dence ; some passages of which I am thus 
permitted to quote. 

" Since my marriage transferred me to this 
western world, no one without the circle of 
the paternal hearth, has had their name so 
frequently upon my lips, or their image so 
fondly cherished in my heart, as yourself, my 
loved instructress, and friend. Peculiar cir- 
cumstances have conspired to render this con- 
stant remembrance very precious, and many, 
many times have I longed to give expression 
to these feelings with my pen, and to ask 



192 MY SCHOOLS. 

your sympathy, your counsel, and your pray- 
ers. A fear of adding to the multitude of 
your employments the task of a single line, 
has hitherto deterred me. But this once, I 
must claim the gratification of telling how 
my days are passed, to her who most formed 
me for their duties, (if there is, indeed, any 
fitness in me,) and ere those days close for- 
ever, once more thanlc her for the direction 
she gave my youthfnl mind. 

" Teaching was to me an employment en- 
tirely new, when I' first came to Kentucky, as 
the wife of one who is truly a missionary 
bishop, and who with the greatest labor, self- 
denial, and privation, could hope only to sow 
the seed with tears, which future laborers, 
may we hope, reap in joy. The provision that 
our beloved Church in this region was enabled 
to make for him is so scanty, that when his 
duties as a bishop interfering with those of a 
parish-minister, induced him to resign the 
latter, it was literally the renunciation of his 
whole income. 

" My mind at once was busy to devise how 



MY SCHOOLS. 193 

I might enable him to be a self- supported mis- 
sionary. The schools around me were inferior 
to the standard that existed in my own mem- 
ory. Something seemed to whisper that the 
duty of instruction devolved on me. Then it 
was, that your image recurred so vividly, your 
happy countenance as you dispensed to us 
those instructions which were to be the guide 
of our future lives, the feelings of love and 
reverence with which we regarded you, all 
conspired to encourage me to make the effort 
to gather in the bosom of my own family, the 
same number that composed your dear circle, 
and to mould, in all respects, my school upon 
the sweet remembrance of your own. 

" Immediately after my marriage, I had 
commenced the instruction of the three little 
daughters of my husband, and of a motherless 
grandchild of the Hon. Henry Clay, who be- 
came a member of our household. As I con- 
templated new cares, by the increase of my 
pupils, I strengthened myself by recalling 
your example. Again I saw you, the centre 

of a loving circle, dispensing knowledge and 
17 



194 MY SCHOOLS. 

happiness, the prop around which our wreath 
of affection entwined. Now, I have your 
number, and observe your regulations. Your 
volumes are my premiums, your sentiments 
are frequent in our poetical recitations, your 
name is among us as a household word. 
When they wish to speak of me in the terms 
that will be most gratifying, they say, ' Our 
teacher was a pupil of Mrs. Sigourney, and 
our school is modelled after hers.' We have 
our texts of Scripture, at the dismission of 
school, our little charitable society, my weekly 
readings and instructions are after your pat- 
tern, and our coronation of the most amiable 
one, in a beautiful grove, is on the first of 
August, your own anniversary. I think I 
may say that what was begun as a duty, has 
become one of my highest pleasures." 

The sphere of instructress has been labori- 
ously and successfully filled by the writer of 
the above for more than thirteen years, with- 
out detriment to the discharge of maternal 
duties or the claims of society. During this 
period, nearly three hundred have shared the 



MY SCHOOLS. 195 

privilege of her guidance and example ; and 
having been herself a model-pupil, she is also 
without doubt a model-teacher. The festival 
of the 1st of August to, which she alludes, as 
the prototype of her own, was originally estab- 
lished by my pupils, in the summer of 1815, 
the first anniversary of the commencement of 
our school. They had earnestly requested 
my permission to commemorate an event 
which was to them so dear. After obtaining 
consent for the holiday, they proposed sev- 
eral plans which, to their joyous spirits, seem- 
ed to combine fitness with pleasure. Among 
them, was a drive to Monte-Video, the roman- 
tic country-seat of their friend, Mr. Wads- 
worth, at a distance of nine miles from the 
city. 

At length they decided on one of more sim- 
plicity, and less expense, a rural festival in a 
neighboring grove, upon the banks of a fair 
stream. Thither, they repaired early after 
dinner, their Committee having previously 
made all necessary arrangements. Parents, 
and particular friends, had been invited to 



196 MY SCHOOLS. 

join them at an appointed hour to witness and 
partake their happiness. In a recess over- 
shadowed by trees, stood the baskets of re- 
freshments, whose varied contents were in 
due time to be tastefully spread upon a long 
table, glittering with its snow-white cloth, 
through the green branches. 

But the most interesting feature of the 
scene, to many young hearts, was the placing 
with appropriate ceremonies, a crown of woven 
flowers on the head of her, who throughout 
the whole year, had excelled in all amiable 
virtues. Her election had been by the vote 
of her companions, subject of course to my 
approval and confirmation. There were poet- 
ical addresses to the Queen, and her courtly 
answers, and song, and sweet discourse, and 
the reception of group after group, as they ar- 
rived on the grounds, and entertainment at 
the rich board, where every gaest was duly 
pressed by the ardent and untiring hostesses. 
Then came affectionate leave-takings, as the 
sun grew low, and good wishes, and thanks 
of the invited friends, and the plentiful gather- 



MY SCHOOLS. 197 

ing of fragments for the invalid, each one 
knowing where this orange or that confection 
could be best bestowed ; for to them was no 
perfect happiness, without a sprinkling of be- 
nevolence. 

These simple and delightful festivities were 
observed without interruption, on every first 
of August during the continuance of the 
school. That after its final dissolution, a de- 
sire should still exist to keep this anniversary, 
was to me a cheering suffrage of their con- 
stancy and affection. So on the same spot, 
consecrated by sweet and sacred memories, 
we continued to gather year after year. 

There was indeed no more crowning with 
flowers. But from the past, every hand culled 
some thornless rose, or changeless evergreen. 
Now cares had brought gravity and a/ deeper 
expression to some young brows, but they 
were those blessed cares of the housekeeper 
or the mother, that give the crown to wo- 
man's happiness. 

Ere long, there were carpets spread upon 

the fresh, green turf, where the little ones 
17* 



198 MY SCHOOLS. 

sate or gambolled, with glad, wondering eyes. 
Anon, some joyous prattler would be led to a 
fair retreat, and told that there its mother re- 
ceived a beautiful crown, for being the best 
among good children. There was, also, the 
assembling of parents and invited guests, and 
the festal board, as of old, and sometimes the 
members of oar noble Institution for the Deaf 
and Dumb, in the vicinity, came out in pro- 
cession, to share our welcome and partake our 
cheer. 

There, too, the yearly report of their chari- 
table society was presented, and its officers 
chosen ; for this association was cherished as 
one of the sources whence our friendship de- 
rived permanence. Its present members no 
longer restricted themselves to the simpler 
forms of their childhood's bounty, but re- 
served the privilege of annual selection from 
among the numerous objects of Christian be- 
nevolence, such as they deemed most feasible 
and appropriate. Sometimes they aided the 
Institution for orphan children, within their 
own gates, then provided an infant-school ap- 



MY SCHOOLS. 199 

paratus for their former companion in heathen 
Barmah, then gladdened with a well-chosen 
library the mission establishment among our 
own aborigines, and the colony of Liberia in 
Africa. 

Books to enlighten ignorance, they were in- 
clined to consider as the most valuable gifts in 
their power to bestow. Grarments may fur- 
nish food for the moth, money be expended 
not according to the wishes of the giver, but 
volumes of useful knowledge and pious instruc- 
tion share the imperishable nature of the 
riches they impart. Silently they will con- 
tinue to breathe a blessing, when both they 
who gave, and they who penned their pages, 
shall be sleeping where is '' neither device nor 
wisdom." Voiceless messengers of truth and 
peace will they be through future generations, 
continuing to " drop as the rain, and distil as 
the dew, as the small rain upon the tender 
herb and as the showers upon the grass." 

Their fifteenth anniversary found them re- 
sponding to a touching appeal of the widows 
and orphans of Athens, then suffering from 



200 MY SCHOOLS. 

Turkish thraldom. In their letter, enclosing 
fifty dollars, they say, — 

" Would that greater liberality were at 
present in our power, but the original number 
of our society has been diminished by disper- 
sion and death. We were formerly members 
of one happy school, where with our early 
studies was interwoven the history of your 
clime. To Grreece, especially to Athens, our 
young hearts went forth in willing pilgrim- 
age. The policy of Solon, the valor of Mil- 
tiades, the fame of Pericles, enraptured our 
imaginations, and we sate, delighted listeners, 
at the feet of Socrates and of Plato. 

" Now, the period of our school education is 
completed, and some of us have entered upon 
the highest duties of woman's lot. Yet the 
time there spent together, is precious in our 
memory. We keep the day of its commence- 
ment as a yearly festival. Even now, while 
we celebrate its fifteenth anniversary, in our 
beautiful sacred grove, your sighs seem to 
reach us from the sad caverns of Egina. 

" We offer you our gift in the name of a 



MY SCHOOLS. 201 

common Redeemer. Stretching out our hands 
to you across the globe, we pray you to be of 
good courage." 

By degrees our band became widely separ- 
ated. Their homes were found in seven dif- 
ferent States, from New Hampshire to Greor- 
gia. Still, the remnant felt the force of early 
attraction, and though our assemblages on the 
first of August were not observed with the 
same strict punctuality, they retained their 
features of true and tender interest. 

There were letters from absent ones to be 
read, for a chain of correspondence bound the 
outposts to the centre. And there were others 
of whom we conversed, who had been called 
to the Home of our Father, to be sundered no 
more. Their lineaments of loveliness had 
been made more sacred by the seal of the 
tomb. It was cheering to us thus to meet, 
though, doubtless, in many a heart was the 
unspoken, tremulous melody of that sweetest 
poet, — 

" Ye are chang'd, ye are chang'd, since I met you last, 
There has something bright from your features pass'd. 



202 MY SCHOOLS. 

There is tliat come over your brow and eye 
Whicli speaks of a world where the flowers must die." 

But the buoyancy of heart and hope, which 
at first gave life to our festival, though it 
might have changed its form, had not departed. 
It dwelt with the second generation, who ac- 
companied us. Ever and anon, there ap- 
peared new little faces to be welcomed, and 
to replenish our diminishing ranks. Already, 
the children were seen advancing above the 
shoulders of their mothers. 

Our 26th anniversary found me a voyager 
upon the tossing ocean. There was, of course, 
no celebration in the grove, but most touch- 
ing in a foreign clime were letters from a few 
of those faithful friends who had on that day 
walked to those consecrated shades, and breath- 
ed their silent prayer for her protection who 
was pensively drifting over the mighty deep. 

Ay, keep your festival of love, 

'Neath summer skies of sparkling blue, 

For ne'er conven'd in Attic grove 
A group so lovely and so true. 



MY SCHOOLS. 203 

Bright streams flow by, green branches wave, 
And lavish nature swells your bliss, 

Even Wisdom owns 'tis well to grave 
On life's frail chart, a trace like this. 

But not, as erst, I haste to join 

With glad embrace your cherish'd train ; 
Nor fondly press your lips to mine. 

Far wanderer o'er the trackless main. 
Yet still to yours my spirit flies. 

O'er mountain billows, wild and drear, 
Still to your greeting tone replies. 

And pours its precepts on your ear. 

Unmark'd may dazzling beauty fade, 

So rudely years their changes wreak, 
Hope vanish like the evening shade, 

And pleasure as the rose-bud's streak, 
Wealth on swift pinion fleet away. 

Ambition miss its lofty goal. 
But life's last throb shall bless the day 

When knowledge enter'd to the soul. 

To you it came, with fruits of peace. 

With genial friendship's sacred power, 
And charity, that fain would ease. 

Of want, and woe, each suffering hour. 
'Twas good to journey by your side. 

O'er classic fields, with studious care : 
How sweet your plastic minds to guide, 

How blest your hallow'd joys to share. 



204 MY SCHOOLS. 

Ask ye for some who are not here ? 

They of glad smile and radiant eye, 
And voices Hke the song-bird clear? 

You call, — they render no reply. 
With myrtle fresh, and stainless rose, 

Be their turf-pillow duly drest, 
And treasure tender thoughts of those 

Who there in holy slumber rest. 

And when again this cherish'd day 

Entwines its wreath round memory's fane, 
Should she, who wakes this simple lay, 

Be mouldering 'mid that silent train, 
• Ah ! still as in your earlier prime 

To this lov'd stream and grove repair, 
Even though the sprinkled snows of time 

Should cling amid those tresses fair. 

Lead hither, too, your infants' feet. 

And teach them with their sports to blend 
Those sacred lessons high and sweet 

That make the Sire of heaven their Friend. 
So for an unborn race, your zeal 

Shall guard this consecrated ground. 
And for their bosoms' casket seal 

Such gems as here their mothers found. 



3tti| BmI 

I SHALL surely be forgiven, for adding a few 
tributes to the memory of those early de- 
parted, with whom it was my privilege to be 
so long connected in the pursuit of knowledge 
and the intercourse of affection. And as I 
thus convoke their images, the traces of their 
youthful beauty, their desire of excellence, 
their friendship for each other, their constant 
tenderness to me, gather freshly around my 
heart, and make me, after the lapse of so 
many years, again a mourner. 

Miss Julia Norton, a native of Farmington, 

Connecticut, was the first rose-bud smitten 

from our wreath of love. She was, at her 

entrance to our school, somewhat older than 

any of its inmates, and her education, which 

had been conducted without regard to ex- 
18 



206 SKETCH. 

pense, was pronounced complete. Adorned 
by those accomplishments that attract admi- 
ration, her discriminating mind cherished fond- 
ness for solid studies, and a wish still longer 
to pursue them. Her gentle, graceful man- 
ners awakened in her companions an interest 
which her affectionate nature soon converted 
into warm attachment. She wished to de- 
rive no higher distinction from her ample for- 
tune, than the pleasure of doing good, while 
with true humility she labored as far as pos- 
sible to veil her liberality from every eye. 
Once, in a conversation respecting the propor- 
tion which benefactions should bear to in- 
come, when I suggested the ancient rule of a 
tenth, she earnestly replied, " Oh ! I should 
never be content with that scanty Jewish 
measure. Surely a fourth part is but little 
to Him who gave us all." 

Bereavements following each other in rapid 
succession had early made her an orphan, and 
deprived her of an only brother and elder sis- 
ter, to whom she turned for protection and 
consolation. This accumulation of sorrow, 



SKETCH. 207 

pressing upon a delicate temperament, had 
marked her countenance with that pensive 
expression which rendered applicable a de- 
scriptive line from her favorite moral poet : — 

" Soft, melanclioly, modest, female, fair." 

She was remarkable while a member of this 
school, for adhering to a systematic arrange- 
ment of time, for her preference of books con- 
veying instruction, to those which merely im- 
part entertainment, for writing in concise and 
elegant language the substance of what she 
read, and for her attachment to the study of 
the Scriptures. She was in the habit of in- 
dulging an impression that her life would be 
short. This idea was probably strengthened 
by a knowledge of the frailty of her constitu- 
tion, and by that deep feeling of loneliness 
which continually reminded her, that she was 
almost the sole mourner of her whole house. 
I strove to obviate it, lest it should create in- 
difference to that world, where she might be 
called to discharge many important duties, but 
it was too deeply seated to be dislodged by my 



208 SKETCH. 

efforts. It seemed to give vigor to her indus- 
try by the perpetual monition that the " time 
was short ;" and I confess that "when I have 
regarded her lovely, her benevolent, her disin- 
terested character, I was almost a convert to 
her doctrine, from the conviction that she was 
rapidly fitting for a purer sphere, and more 
exalted society. When she parted from us, 
it was with the intention of passing a winter 
with her only remaining sister, in a distant 
State, and of returning with the vernal season, 
to pursue our delightful course of study. But 
her anticipated journey was prosecuted no 
further than the city of New York. There 
she became a victim of pulmonary consump- 
tion. Its progress was rapid, yet she was 
found neither fearful, nor unprepared. The 
best-directed remedies proved ineffectual, and 
she calmly resigned the prospect of recovery. 
Still, she expressed a wish, if possible, to 
breathe her last sigh amid the scenes of her 
infancy, that the young partakers in her sports 
and pleasures, might be moved by her depar- 
ture, to seek the refuge that she had found. 



SKETCH. 209 

She had previously arranged with a clear 
mind all her earthly concerns, designated gifts 
for particular friends, devised her fortune judi- 
ciously, not omitting large donations for char- 
itable purposes, especially to missionary and 
Bible societies, wishing to impart to others 
the knowledge of that Grospel which was a 
light to her feet amid the dark mountains of 
death. 

By the consent of her physicians, the home- 
ward journey was undertaken, with every 
precaution for the comfort of the invalid that 
skill or affection could suggest. She sum- 
moned all her remaining strength to sustain 
the exertion. During the first day, she looked 
often from her carriage, and admired the 
groups of children that passed on their way, 
to or from school, or glided over the surface of 
some frozen stream, while the keen air deep- 
ened the color in their cheeks. But the third 
day she drooped. The fatal shaft had pierced 
her. To those who surrounded her couch she 
said, — " This is death. I fear him not." And 

so, she gently yielded her breath to Him who 
18# 



210 SKETCH. 

gave it, in the bloom of seventeen, at Stam- 
ford, thirty-six miles from New York. 

In her pleasant home, fond hearts were 
awaiting her arrival. Her peculiar apartment 
had been prepared, with every appendage that 
could promote her comfort or please her taste. 
There were her chosen books elegantly ar- 
ranged, the transparent curtains festooned 
with her favorite flowers, and in its own pro- 
per nook, the guitar, from which her fairy 
hand drew exquisite music. 

By the bright hearth sate a loving group, 
speaking of her. The blasts of winter blew 
wildly without, but they scarcely heeded 
them, for from her arm-chair the aged grand- 
mother was perpetually speaking of her dar- 
ling so beautiful, so loving, whom she trusted 
soon to embrace. 

Suddenly, a loud knocking at the gate, in 
the dark, cold evening. A messenger, the 
voice of a stranger : — " The dead is coming ! 
The dead is near !" 

The lifeless remains of our cherished one 
were beautiful. Transient disease had but 



SKETCH. 211 

slightly emaciated her fair flesh, and deli- 
cately rounded form. On her polished brow 
was a speaking smile. Methought it said, — 
*' Weep not. I am at rest in the home of my 
Father." Pure spirit ! thou wert permitted 
early to finish thy work below, and to ascend 
where thou mightest serve Him without hin- 
drance or sorrow. 

Never can I forget a being so deservedly 
dear, and whose attachment for me mingled 
the elements of a daughter's love, with a sis- 
ter's sympathy. Unspeakably precious to me 
are the evidences of her piety. Her spiritual 
guide, the Rev. Dr. Porter, who had inti- 
mately known the progress of her religious 
character, commended it as an example to the 
young, in his feeling and forcible address at 
her funeral obsequies. 

*'Ever since her attendance on a beloved 
sister," he said, " in a journey where her life 
terminated, and her own return in loneliness 
of heart to her native scenes, her mind has 
been most tenderly susceptible of the truths 
of religion, and of the refuge they afford for 



212 SKETCH. 

the sorrows of life. Gradually she was led 
from strength to strength, till her highest en- 
joyments seemed to consist in the study of the 
Sacred Volume, attendance on the worship of 
G-od, and secret communion with Him. 

'' ' I have read many books,' said she, 
* books of amusement, books of science and 
morality, but one chapter in the Bible is now 
worth more than all. Yes, my Bible is the 
best of all.' 

" She had been naturally diffident, and re- 
tiring, but became now imbued with a deep 
humility. A meek and lowly spirit was hers, 
and emphatically she thought not of herself 
more highly than she ought to think. Though 
proverbially amiable, she acknowledged an 
innate propensity to evil, and lamented the 
deceitfulness of the heart. In contemplating 
the snares that might await her in future life, 
she found comfort in the hope of divine aid, 
and the promises of her Redeemer. 

" Her prevailing wish was to be made useful 
in the path of iluty ; and with her, the means 
of doing good, and the corresponding disposi- 



SKETCH. 213 

tion were happily united. Tenderness of con- 
science, and submission of spirit \^ere conspic- 
uous in her. She was content to be in sick- 
ness, or in health, in life or in death. In a 
decline of almost unexampled rapidity, Chris- 
tian composure and confidence did not desert 
her. She expressed a sense of the great good- 
ness of the Almighty in granting her such 
advantages for religious instruction, that she 
might gain armor against the day of need, 
and be enabled to contemplate death without 
dismay. 

" The immortal welfare of her young com- 
panions was dear to her heart. When told that 
some of them were inquiring the way to Zion, 
tears of joy suffused her expressive eyes. 
Now, she is brought back to them and to her 
childhood's home breathless and inanimate. 
But the spirit has arisen to that Saviour, 
whom not having seen she loved, in whom, 
having believed, she rejoices with joy un- 
speakable, and full of glory." 

The first death, and indeed, the only one 



214 TRIBUTE. 

that occurred during the continuance of our 
school, wag a source of no common grief. 

Why roams fond memory thus with pensive trace 

Mid blighted blossoms, and a broken vase ? 

"Why does vain hope on trembling wing pm'sue 

An image, transient as the morning dew ? 

— Ah, fruitless search ! — Yet still the heart inquires 

As feeling dictates, or regret inspires, 

"Will that lov'd voice in tuneful cadence pour 

Its sweet recital on my ear no more ? 

No more with mine that earnest eye engage 

To scan the riches of the historic page ? 

Nor nightly moon, nor star with vestal rays, 

Lure to their pathway our united gaze ? 

Nor sabbath-bell allure our steps to join 

The soul's deep worship at Jehovah's shrine ? 

Hear I an answering voice within my breast ? 

Thou hast beheld her in unbroken rest, 

And mov'd with grief that language might not speak, 

Press'd the last kiss upon her faded cheek, 

"Welcom'd*the tide of hallo w'd words that stole 

Like healing balm upon the wounded soul. 

And join'd the funeral train that mourn'd to tread 

The lone turf-altar of the beauteous dead. 

Yet still shall many an hour of musing thought 

Restore her as she was, with goodness fraught, 

Calm, unaffected, joyful to bestow 

The gift of friendship, or the alms for woe, 



TRIBUTE. 215 

Content to suffer pain without a sigh, 

Yet prone to veil it from affection's eye ; 

Tho' while her smile the social band illumin'd, 

While health's fair tinge upon her features bloom'd, 

Even then, her gentle step pursued alone 

Its willing journey to a land unknown. 

— But now, no more my lips presume to claim 

Accustom'd title, or companion's name, 

For, rapt in dreams, methinks, I see thee stand 

A welcom'd sister, 'mid that white-rob'd band 

Who breathe a secret strength, when foes invade, 

And with soft hand our faltering footsteps aid. 

High praise to Him who kept thee free from stain, 
Enrich'd by losses, purified by pain. 
And watchful lest thine unsuspicious hand 
Might strew its pearls upon this sterile strand, 
Exhal'd thee gently, like the breath of even, 
Fresh and unsullied to thy native heaven. 



Five years had the turf gathered greenness 
over the grave of our earliest smitten, ere we 
were again called to mourn. Miss Sarah 
Russ, whose fair countenance while she was 
with us beamed ever with health and that 
mental tranquillity which would seem to be- 
token longevity, was the next to follow to that 
" bourne from whence no traveller returns." 
Our loving band of scholars had been separated 
ere this event, yet the remembrance of her 
virtues remained vivid in their hearts. To an 
uncommonly amiable disposition, she united 
a cultivated literary taste, habits of applica- 
tion, and an unobtrusive spirit, never fully 
estimating its own merits. From none of my 
pupils did I ever receive a more agreeable 
tribute of fixed attention to all my instruc- 
tions, especially those of a religious character, 



SKETCH. 217 

more grateful attachment for aid in any in- 
tricate point of study, or toil of knowledge, 
which her docile and intelligent mind was 
ever ready to encounter, and to overcome. 

A disease of the heart was the messenger 
that suddenly summoned her, at the age of 
nineteen, from life and its enjoyments. Scarce- 
ly changed was her polished brow. The Spoiler 
seemed to have respected its loveliness. Those 
who saw it in the white shroud, with its un- 
changed smile, were reminded of a passage in 
one of those poems, which she had been fond 
of repeating, — 

" So calmly sweet, so coldly fair, 
We start ! for soul is wanting there." 

Her companions will still remember the excel- 
lence she had attained in the recitation of poetry, 
though while she ministered to their enjoy- 
ment by this elegant accomphshment, they 
little thought that she was so soon herself to 
furnish an illustration of that *^ beauty in 
deo-th," to which she gave expression by her 

fine elocution and varied cadence. 
19 



218 SKETCH. 

Absence prevented me from visiting her, in 
the last stages of her brief illness, and my re- 
turn was only a few hours after the solemn 
words had been uttered over her open grave, 
*' Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, 
looking for the general resurrection at the last 
day, and the life of the world to come." 

She was the first among our cherished band 
who died in the city where our school had 
existed, or was buried in its place of graves. 
Over -that lowly couch, her young associates 
doubtless delighted to rear some fragrant un- 
obtrusive flower, emblematic of her character 
and of the affection which she so truly merited 
and fondly repaid. 



Miss Betsey Law Bishop of New Haven, 
Connecticut : — it seems scarcely possible that 
I am called to add this name to the catalogue 
of the pale assembly of the dead. She was 
as our song-bird. And though the warbler 
that cheers the ear this hour with melody, 
may the next be the prey of the fowler, I was 
not prepared to apply this truth to her. All 
who knew her, must remember the ardor of 
her nature, how her beautiful eyes were irra- 
diated with the joys of the present, and the 
anticipations of the future. Strangers, in vis- 
iting our school, were accustomed to desig- 
nate her, and ask whose fair countenance in- 
dicated such a fulness of bliss. To a mind 
of no common promise, she united a heart 
whose happy temperament seemed to have 
nothing either to conceal or to regret. 

During her last visit to this city, in the 



220 SKETCH. 

bloom and gaiety of sixteen, life presented 
only images of unmingled felicity. Still, amid 
the elasticity of spirits which had never tasted 
sorrow, she had cultivated serious reflection, 
and turned her young heart to Him who hath 
promised to be found of the early seeker. 
Soon after her return home, she was smitten 
by the shaft of consumption, that fearful, fatal 
archer. She became rapidly emaciated, and 
her elastic foot traversed the vales no more. 
In sickness she obtained that divine consola- 
tion which in health she had prized, and 
sought not in vain. One who had " himself 
been pierc'd by the archers." He compassion- 
ated the wounded, and 

" With gentlest force soliciting the darts, 
He drew them forth, and heal'd, and bade her live." 

Yes, live ! but not in a clime of change and 
temptation, where she must often suffer, and 
might perchance sometimes fall. He bade 
her live, where is neither possibility of error, 
nor alloy to happiness, where the " corruptible 
shall put on incorruption, and the mortal, im- 
mortalitv." 



Miss Elizabeth Baldwin, a native of the same 
beautiful New Haven, and a friend of our last- 
named companion, was laid by her side, with- 
in the brief interval of two months. Hand in 
hand, they had trodden the same paths, and 
pursued the same studies, and " ere twice 
yon moon had filled her horn," one followed 
the other to that silent rest which is broken 
only by the resurrection morn. The same 
messenger was appointed for both, that pul- 
monary consumption which delights to revel 
amid our fairest flowers. 

I last saw this loved pupil at the public 
dedication of our Asylum for the Deaf and 
Dumb. She expressed much satisfaction in 
the appropriate exercises of the day, and deep 
interest in the benevolent designs of that noble 
establishment, Three years had elapsed since 
19* 



222 SKETCH. 

the dissolution of our school. Some of us had 
entered a higher and more absorbing sphere 
of duty, and she was herself -contemplating a 
similar change. Yet her affectionate heart 
recurred with unchanging warmth to the time 
spent together, as though scarcely a week 
had swept over its bright traces on memory's 
annals. I little thought, as she imparted 
these cherished recollections, that this brief 
visit was to be her last, and that I should see 
her face and hear her voice no more on earth. 
Religious meditations and hopes were with 
her during the rapid progress of her disease, 
for she had previously inquired after the Grod 
of her fathers, and been anxious to know her 
duty with reference to Him. Nineteen happy 
summers had passed over her, when meekly, 
and with her trust above, she who came forth 
as a flower was cut dowuj and like a fleeting 
shado\j continued not. 

" The church -yard bears an added stone, 
The fireside shows a vacant chair, 
Here, sadness sits and weeps alone, 
And death displays its banner there ; 



TRIBUTE. 223 

The life hath gone, the breath is fled, 
And what hath been no more shall be ; 

The well-known form, the welcome tread, 
Ah ! where are they, and where is she 1" 



Miss Mary Olcott Barry, of Baltimore, our 
sweet southern sister, was tlie youngest blos- 
som that has been blighted in our garland. 
Fifteen summers were allotted her on earth, 
and then she passed to a more genial clime. 

She was ever a favorite among her school- 
associates, for she possessed a heart of the 
warmest sensibilities, ready to make any sac- 
rifice for the welfare of the objects of its love. 
We could not fail to appreciate a goodness 
always prompt to consult our minutest conve- 
nience, and to study our unspoken wishes. 

I can never forget the expression of her 
countenance, when she came to take a final 
farewell, a few months after the separation of 
our school. Emotions of gratitude and love, 
not to be mistaken, regret at leaving those 
kind relatives, with whom her tender spirit 



SKETCH. 225 

had found a delightful residence, joy at the 
prospect of reunion with affectionate parents 
and kindred, shed by turns changeful light 
and shades over her features, as the fleeting 
cloud, or sunbeam vary the surface of some 
crystal lake. 

Three years of attentive study succeeded 
her return to her home, and her father who 
w^as her preceptor and qualified by high erudi- 
tion and experience in teaching, to be an excel- 
lent judge, bore the most honorable testimony 
both to her proficiency and her virtues, pro- 
nouncing her " all that his heart could desire." 

One of her most cherished anticipations was 
a visit to her friends in Hartford, for which 
she had obtained permission. The period ap- 
proached for the consummation of this wish. 
Her heart was like a young bird with its 
pinions newly spread. Summer brightened 
and deepened. She had taken an active and 
diligent part in the preparation of her ward- 
robe for the expected journey. It was com- 
pleted, but other garments ^waited her — the 
winding-sheet and the shroud. " In a mo- 



226 SKETCH. 



ment, in the twinkling of an eye," she was 
changed. — " Dear child ! thy form hath re- 
turned to the earth, and thy spirit ascended 
to Grod who gave it." 



Miss Caroline Collins, of Middletown, Con- 
necticut, by her amiable deportment in school, 
and her habit of patient, accurate investiga- 
tion, maintained a high standing among those 
who best loved, and most successfully acquired 
knowledge. Always docile and consistent, 
nothing during our whole intercourse as teach- 
er and pupil occurred to require restraint, un- . 
less it was that intense application which 
sometimes threatened to endanger health ; an 
error so coupled with meekness, that we were 
almost inclined to number it among her virtues. 

In the welfare of our charitable society, one 
of whose objects was to form a uniting link 
after our band as a school was broken, she 
manifested deep and unvarying interest. One 
of the features devised to give it permanence, 
was a plan of correspondence. She punc- 



228 SKETCH. 

tually observed the requirement that " each 
member of the society should at the return of 
its anniversary, address to some other distant 
member, a letter, renewing the traces of early 
friendship, proposing a few questions in the 
studies formerly pursued together, and enfor- 
cing some moral or religious resolution, as well 
as perseverance in works of benevolence." 

I have in my possession a letter to one of 
her former school-associates, evincing how 
faithfully she complied with every form of 
obligation. After a few pleasant remarks to 
her friend, she thus acquits herself in the in- 
terrogative or recapitulatory department :■ — 

" Please inform me who was the first aspi- 
rant after the title of Conqueror ? 

" Who was the preceptor of James the 
First, of England ? 

" Mention the names of the seven wise men 
of Greece, with their respective qualities. 

" Which do you consider the most difficult, 
and which the most important study ? 

" Of what was the circle anciently counted 
symbolical ? 



SKETCH. 229 

" Among the almost countless discoveries, 
or inventions, which do you consider as the 
most extensively beneficial to mankind ? 

*' Now, as we are enjoined by the constitu- 
tion of our society, not only to quicken liter- 
ary recollections, but to recommend some par- 
ticular virtue, and urge that it be pursued to 
excellence, what, my dear friend, shall I press 
on you ? Many are the virtues that my heart 
wishes you to possess, and hopes that you 
assiduously cultivate. Above all, ^ seek the 
pearl of great price.' For a blessed assur- 
ance is given, ' Seek, and ye shall find.' 

" Having obtained this, you will not only 
find your own happiness more complete, but 
greatly add to that of those around you. 

" Ah ! how true is it that life is uncertain. 

We know not even where the next hour may 

find us. Time speeds on, and, ere long, the 

green sod will cover our cold dust. Yet, why 

should we wish to delay the moment that 

shall release us from a world of sorrow and of 

sin, and open the dawn of a glorious eternity ? 

Unassisted nature may indeed shrink, and 
20 



230 SKETCH. 

with dread contemplate a vast, unrealized fu- 
turity. But the spirit of the Christian looks 
beyond the veil, and beholds an inheritance 
purchased by a Redeemer, the Author of its 
salvation.'* 

Solemnly does it impress the words of this 
youthful advocate for the truth, to feel that so 
soon after their utterance, she was summoned 
to test their reality, not " through a glass 
darkly, but face to face." A victim of that 
insidious disease which flushes the cheek with 
beauty, while it pours deadly poison through 
the vitals, she was not blinded by its flatteries. 
With the same placid composure that had 
attended her in health and prosperity, she 
took cognizance of her path of decline, and of 
the narrow house where it must terminate. 
"Withdrawing herself from such visits and con- 
versation as might cause the shadows of this 
receding world, to bewilder the contemplation, 
or obstruct the prospect of that which she 
was about to enter, she calmly went down 
into the dark valley, resting on an unseen, 
omnipotent Arm. 



SKETCH. 231 

When the intelligence of the departure of 
that dear one reached me, a passage from her 
favorite poet rushed to my mind, — 

" Lay her in the grave, 
And from her fair and unpolluted flesh 
Let violets spring." 

But how immeasurably more sublime, are 
the words of the Saviour, in whom she con- 
fided, " Blessed are the pure in heart, for they 
shall see Grod." 



Miss Margaret Colt, one of our favorite pu- 
pils, was taken in youth from many mourning 
friends, and what still deepened the sadness 
of separation, from a heart that tenderly loved 
her, and trusted ere long to have united its 
earthly destinies with hers. 

" Snatch'd in her bloom, and in her bridal hour." 

How often from my window, for our residences 
were near each other, have I seen her travers- 
ing the pleasant grounds and shaded retreats 
of her home, or heard the glad tones of her 
voice, welcoming some approaching guest. Yet 
amid the sunshine of joy, the Spoiler stole 
secretly to her side. His arrow was insidious 
and keen. Months of suffering, mingled with 
the knell of the consumptive cough, ensued. 



SKETCH. 233 

But life was sweet to her, and resolutely she 
cherished a trust of its continuance. 

To her young spirit, it was a pleasant thing 
to look on this beautiful world, and listen to 
the voice of love, and twine the bower of hope, 
with budding garlands. Then, a change came 
over her whole nature, so suddenly, so strong- 
ly marked, that it seemed like a new life, the 
life of those that are born of the Spirit. The 
charms and aspirations that had their root in 
earth, faded into the calmness of perfect 
peace, and resignation to the Divine Will. 

Her anticipations, her treasures, were trans- 
ferred above, and her soul in patience waited 
the summons to arise, and follow them. It 
was not the agony of pain, rendering existence 
joyless, for her decline had been more gentle 
than was common to her fatal disease. She 
acknowledged that she had never known true 
happiness, until laid on her couch of mortal 
languishing ; and sent to her young compan- 
ions affecting messages, and monitions indic- 
ative of her anxiety for their eternal welfare. 

To her revered spiritual guide, she gave, as 
20* 



234 SKETCH. 

the text of her funeral sermon, the emphatic, 
inspired injunction, " Remember now thy Cre- 
ator in the days of thy youth." 

My last interview with her, is deeply de- 
picted on my heart. It was but a few days 
before her soul took its flight. She was labor- 
ing for the faint breath that still bound her to 
clay. The heaving bosom told how strong 
was the toil, and that the strife could not be 
long sustained. Yet on her pure brow, was 
the smile of one, from whom the bitterness of 
death had been taken away. Her eye beamed 
with unearthly brightness, at the name of 
Him who was her strength and salvation. 
The final dismission was without a struggle. 
A call to her Saviour, hung upon her lip, 
when it was white and cold as marble, and 
with the early light of a cloudless summer 
morning, she calmly departed in the bloom of 
nineteen. 

There was an open grave, and many an eye 
Looked down upon it. Slow the sable hearse 
Moved on, as if reluctantly it bare 
The young, unwearied form to that cold couch 



TRIBUTE. 235 

Whicli age and sorrow render sweet to man. 
There seemed a sadness in the humid air, 
Lifting the young grass from those verdant mounds 
"Where shimber multitudes. 

There was a train 
Of 5'oung fair females, with their brows of bloom, 
And shining tresses. Arm in arm they came, 
And stood upon the brink of that dark pit 
In pensive beauty, waiting the approach 
Of their companion. She was wont to fly 
And meet them, as the gay bird meets the spring. 
Brushing the dew-drop from the morning flowers, 
And breathing mirth and gladness. JVoio, she came 
With movements fashioned to the deep-toned bell ; 
She came with mourning sire and sorrowing friends, 
And tears of those who at her side were nursed 
By the same mother. 

Ah ! and one was there. 
Who, ere the folding of the summer rose, 
Had hoped to greet her as his bride. But death 
Arose between them. The pale lover watched 
So close her journey through the shadowy vale. 
That almost to his heart the ice of death 
Entered from hers. There was a brilliant flush 
Of youth about her, and her kindling eye 
Poured such unearthly light, that hope would hang 
Even on the archer's arrow, while it dropped 
Deep poison. Many a restless night she toiled 
For that slight breath that held her from the tomb, 
Still wasting hke a snow-wreath, which the sun 



236 TRIBUTE. 

Marks for his own", on some cool mountain's breast, 
Yet spares, and tinges long with rosy light. 

Oft o'er the musings of her silent couch 
Came visions of that matron form which bent 
AVith nursing tenderness to soothe and bless 
Her cradle dream : and her emaciate hand 
In trembling prayer she raised, that He who saved 
The sainted mother would redeem the child. 
Was the orison lost ? Whence then that peace 
So dove-like, settling o'er a soul that loved 
Earth and its pleasures ? Whence that angel smile 
With which the allurements of a world so dear 
Were counted and resigned ? that eloquence 
So fondly urging those whose hearts were full 
Of sublunary happiness, to seek 
A better portion ? Whence that voice of joy, 
Which from the marble lip, in life's last strife 
Burst forth, to hail her everlasting home ? 

Cold reasoners ! be convinced. And when ye stand 
Where that fair brow, and those unfrosted locks 
Return to dust, where the young sleeper waits 
The resurrection morn, oh ! lift the heart 
Tn r>raise to Him who gave the victory. 



Miss Charlotte Hull, a native of Cheshire, 
Connecticut, and afterwards the wife of John 
Olmsted, Esq., of Hartford, was distinguished 
among her associates at school by correct 
scholarship, and uniformly amiable deport- 
ment. The retiring feminine graces were 
eminently hers, and a heart that could love 
deeply and truly. Nothing during the whole 
period of her continuance under my care, 
could have justified reproof; and after the 
bands of our intercourse were sundered, and 
a new sphere of action prepared for us, her 
smile of unchanged love, and words of affec- 
tionate greeting, whenever we met, were a 
cordial to my spirit. 

In the duties of wife and mother, she was 
the same graceful, excellent, self-sacrificing 
being, as when, in early youth, among her 



238 SKETCH. 

joyous companions, she gathered the thornless 
flowers of knowledge. To make his interest 
her own, to whom she had given her sacred 
vows, to labor without weariness, in the form- 
ation of the infant mind, to conform herself 
to the will of her Maker, were her studies, 
and sources of happiness. Always gentle, al- 
ways cheerful, always faithful, these were her 
characteristics in domestic life. 

In her sudden, unexpected call from the en- 
joyments that surrounded her, we read anew 
the frailty of earthly hope, and the necessity 
of standing ever on our watch, not knowing 
whether the dark-winged angel shall come 
*' at midnight, or at the cock-crowing, or in 
the morning." It was the greatest consola- 
tion to her bereaved friends, that she was thus 
prepared. One of her last acts, was what she 
had long contemplated, a public dedication of 
herself to the service of G-od. 

On the day when her name was to be en- 
rolled among the disciples of her Saviour, the 
inclemency of the weather, and her own some- 
what delicate health, caused a doubt whether 



SKETCH. 239 

it were best for her to attend divine service : 



but she mildly expressed her determination 
to go, adding, " Perhaps, I may not have an- 
other opportunity." Did the Spirit of truth 
v^hisper to her young heart, the uncertainty 
of this mortal life, which she was so soon to 
exemplify ? 

The brief interval, after the last messenger 
came, she employed in taking leave of her 
dearest friends, and her two little sons, ex- 
pressing the strength of her Christian hope, 
and commending her soul to Him who sum- 
moned it. Music, that had been her solace 
from early days, still lingered in her heart, 
with its harmonies, and she attempted to sing 
a hymn, but the ice of death checked the 
trembling strain of melody. Beside her life- 
less form, as it was laid shrouded in the house 
of prayer, many listened to the solemn teach- 
ings of her pastor, founded on that sublime 
passage of inspiration, " Grod is our refuge 
and strength, a very present help in time of 
trouble." 



240 TRIBUTE. 

I saw, at opening morn, a blissful scene. 

As if on earth a ray of Eden shone, 
A lovely form with countenance serene, 

Yv^hich bending frqpi the pure domestic throne, 
Poured forth a sacred hymn in warbhng tone ; 

One beauteous boy was sporting at her side. 
And one in cradle dreams, like bud new-blown, 

While o'er her varying cheek was seen to glide 
A guardian angel's love, blent with a mother's pride. 

At evening hour I came, — but woe was there ! 

On that fair brow the hand of death was laid, 
Love's fondest hopes were lost in deep despair, 

And desolation drew its darkest shade. 
The dews of pain had drenched that sunny braid 

Of clustering hair, and dimmed the eye's bright flame, 
While clinging to the hand that lent no aid, 

Those cherub infants called their mother's name, 
And wept in wondering woe, that no fond answer came. 

Again I look'd, and in the house of God, 

Where late she stood, her solemn vows to pay, 
Choosing the narrow path her Saviour trod. 

With changeless smile, the gentle sleeper lay ; 
Sadly they bore her to her bed of clay, 

And smoothed the turf, while tears fell down like rain : 
But the young mother, to a brighter day 

Soared high above the flight of care and pain, 
To wear the spotless robe in her Redeemer's train. 



Miss Sarah Ann Colt was quite young at 
her entrance into our school, and admired for 
her bright, cheerful countenance. Her image 
is exceedingly vivid on memory's annal, with 
her profuse flaxen hair, clear, blue eye, and 
sweet smile, as she lingered by the side of 
her elder sister, on whom she affectionately 
depended. A few years fled, and I saw her 
bending over the open grave of that loved 
sister, a deep and intense mourner. Faith in 
that Redeemer, among whose professed fol- 
lowers she enrolled herself, in the bloom of 
youth, sustained and gradually soothed her 
sorrow. 

Ere her removal to another State with 'her 

parents, she officiated as a faithful teacher 

in the female Seminary of her native city. 

Most pleasant has it been to me to find so 
21 



242 SKETCH. 

many of those who were once under my care, 
zealous to render patient and efficient service 
whenever opportunity is offered to enter on 
the great work of education. 

But at the tenth anniversary after our sep- 
aration as a school, when we gathered to- 
gether in our consecrated grove, where she 
had so delighted to meet with us, she, with 
eight others of our beloved band, had already 
become tenants of the narrow tornb. 

The groups that once glided among those 
green trees, or sate conversing upon the fringed 
margin of their favorite stream, fair, and full 
of gladness, knowing naught of life, save the 
blush and perfume of its morning, found after 
the lapse of a few years almost every festi- 
val saddened by memories of departed, dear 
ones. Still it was consoling thus to meet,' 
and speak to each other in sympathy of the 
loved and lost. The simplest mark of attach- 
ment, the slightest office of affection was re- 
stored, and treasured, for the tomb gives a 
strange, solemn value to every smile of its in- 



TRIBUTE. 243 

mates, every word that fell from lips which 
are to be unsealed no more on earth. 

I saw a drop of morning dew 

Like crystal gem serene, 
Bright sparkling on a verdant bough 

All drest in suiumer-green ; 
The noon-day sun exhal'd the tear 

And drank it, as it shone, 
The winds of winter cleft the stem, 

It trembled, and was gone. 
Was not that dew-drop like the bloom 

And glory of our span ? 
And yonder reft, and blighted bough 

Like the frail hope of man ? 



When memory recalls the image of those 
fair young beings, who for five years brought 
me so much happiness, that of Miss Mary 
Hillhouse Pitkin is ever vivid among the cher- 
ished group. Grentle, graceful, and studious, 
her faults, if she had any, were either not 
discernible during our intercourse, or have 
faded from the tablet of remembrance. 

Delicacy and purity of mind were among 
her distinguishing characteristics, to which 
the proprieties of a perfectly lady-like deport- 
ment gave due expression. She also evinced 
a maturity of thought and judgment that 
made her the counsellor, as well as the friend 
of her companions. This influence was in- 
creased by a disposition so amiable, and a 
temper so singularly equable and sweet, that 
those who shared with her the earliest and 



SKETCH. 245 

most intimate relations of life, are doubtful 
whether it was ever seriously ruffled. 

Her virtues rested on the basis of true reli- 
gion, with whose principles and love she was 
imbued in her tender years. They were dis- 
played in the beauty of a consistent example, 
ere she added the outward profession of her 
faith, and at the age of nineteen received the 
blessed memorials of her Saviour's dying love. 

Soon after this self-consecration, she as- 
sumed a new and wider range of duty by her 
marriage with John T. Norton, Esq., and re- 
moval from the sweetly rural scenery of Far- 
mington, her native place, to the city of Al- 
bany. 

Thither she bore the same loving spirit, and 

unobtrusive goodness that had marked her 

from the beginning, and made the departure 

from her father's house the first grief that she 

had ever caused there. Entering upon the 

climax of woman's duty, with a right spirit, 

she attained a higher happiness than she had 

ever before known. Surrounded by all that 

could make life attractive, a circle of deeply 
21* 



246 SKETCH. 

attached friends, a happy and elegant home, 
and the bird -like voices of little ones, hailing 
her as their mother, she found in their nursing, 
care and moral training full exercise and pay- 
ment for her tireless tenderness. 

Thus actively and delightfully employed, 
she was found by that subtle foe, who carries 
sorrow and desolation into so many of the 
families of our land. The indications of con- 
sumption were of so decided a character, that, 
coupled as they were, in her case, with fragil- 
ity of form, and delicate organization, a fatal 
result was but too surely predicted. That 
there was deep strife at a heart so full to 
overflowing of intense affections, who can 
doubt? But of this "travail of the soul" 
there remains no record. The same fortitude 
and regard for the feelings of others, which 
led her to suppress the outward signs of phys- 
ical suffering, enabled her to spare them the 
sight of that anguish, which admitted of no 
earthly alleviation. 

For two years, all the efforts of medicine, 
and the solicitudes of love, contended with the 



SKETCH. 247 

disease, but health never more revisited her lan- 
guid frame. What an affecting lesson did she 
give of faith, resignation, and Christian hope. 
Not an impatient or repining word escaped her 
lips ; and through the protracted period of trial 
and weakness, she manifested such cheerful 
serenity, that it was to her sick chamber, her 
stricken friends resorted for comfort and peace. 

Then came the bitter parting from her little 
ones, and with what composure was it sus- 
tained. Begging them never to forget her, 
she resigned them without a murmur to their 
Father in heaven. It was so arranged that 
the last summer of her life should pass in the 
home of her birth, where, amid all the objects 
of her fondest earthly love, she calmly obeyed 
the call to leave them, on the 21st of Septem- 
ber, 1829, at the age of twenty-seven. 

Once, during the latter stages of her sick- 
ness, while conversing with the confidence of 
intimacy on her approaching dissolution, she 
said in the yearning of maternal love, she felt 
as if she might part with her sons, but her in- 
fant daughters she would fain take with her. 



248 TRIBUTE. 

Was that uttered emotion a prayer ? "Was it 
answered in Infinite Wisdom ? One lamb-like 
little daughter, soon after, preceded her to 
heaven, and ere the year closed, the other was 
also laid by her side. 

So early called ! How brief the space 
Since thou, enwrapped in youthful grace 
Amid the haunts of studious thought, 
For classic knowledge meekly sought. 

How brief the space ! Yet who may trust 
The joys that have their root in dust. 
For time will mark the fairest brow, 
And chain the lightest stej), and thou 
Through many a change hast swiftly sped, 
Wife, mother, and the early dead. 

Yet we remember thee, as one 
In whom the work of faith was done ; 
And better is it thus to soar 
To Heaven's high bliss ere youth is o'er. 
And leave that hope serenely clear 
Whose lustre lights the mourner's tear. 
Than drawing long life's feeble thread, 
Reluctant, lingering, o'er the dead, 
Unloved, unwept, resign its sway, 
And unrecorded, pass away. 



Had I been required to select from our 
whole number of pupils, one who drew most 
powerfully toward herself the unlimited re- 
gard of every heart, the selection would with- 
out hesitation have fallen upon Miss Alice 
Cogswell. Her peculiar misfortune — the dep- 
rivation of hearing and speech, opened for 
her new avenues to tenderness and sympathy. 
Though her tones might not reach the ear, 
from her eye flowed a resistless dialect, com- 
prehended by all. The language of the affec- 
tions was eminently at her control. It found 
a response in every bosom. To know her in- 
timately, as it was my privilege to do, to wit- 
ness the early expansion of her fine intellect, 
her vivid imagination, her thirst for knowl- 
edge, and her rapture in acquiring it, could 



250 SKETCH. 

not but lay the foundation of no common at- 
tachment. 

Her deportment in school was most win- 
ing. Love for her teacher, and companions 
was ever beaming from her expressive fea- 
tures. The language of signs, as now exhib- 
ited in its wonderful copiousness and power, 
had not then crossed the ocean to this western 
world, to bind to society and its privileges, 
such multitudes of silent people. The rapid 
manual alphabet now in use had not reached 
us ; and the tardy representation with both 
hands, of each letter constituting a word, and 
the few signs that we were able to invent, 
founded principally on visible resemblance, 
were, save the utterance of the eye, our only 
means of communication. On these, her gift- 
ed mind seized, intent to overleap every ob- 
stacle, and whenever it had possessed itself of 
a fact, formed rapidly its own opinions and 
conclusions. 

Having no guide in this species of instruc- 
tion, I earnestly labored to enlarge the num- 
ber of signs, in which I was aided by her 



SKETCH. 251 

school-mates, for she was the darling of all. 
I arranged alphabetically a vocabulary of her 
scholastic gleanings, statedly adding to it 
each new attainment, and ever when her as- 
sociates had completed their weekly review of 
studies, she came joyfully, by the aid of this 
simple lexicon, to pass her own. Her defini- 
tion of words, w^as varied by appendant de- 
scriptions, or snatches of narrative, historical, 
biographical, and scriptural, which had been 
taught her ; and as she gave them by signs, 
her fellow-pupils in rotation interpreted oral- 
ly, exulting in every acquisition or commen- 
dation, as though it were their own. 

Fragments of knowledge, thus imparted and 
stored, she guarded as treasures, and every 
new idea that glowed on the mind's pure altar 
gave her intense delight. Each day, she was 
watchful of the periods of time that it was in 
my power regularly to devote to her; and 
sometimes ere the classes had quite completed 
their recitations, stood imploringly by my side, 
spelling on her slender fingers, " Have you not 
now something for your little Alice ?" She 



252 SKETCH. 

was in a similar picturesque attitude, when 
the following extempore effusion, partly refer- 
ring to herself, was written during the busi- 
ness of the school. I recollect the smiling 
curiosity with which she noted the rapid for- 
mation of the " short lines," as she was ac- 
customed to designate poetry. 

EXCUSE FOR NOT FULFILLING AN ENGAGEMENT. 

My friend, I gave a glad assent 

To your request at noon, 
But now I find I cannot leave 

My precious charge so soon. 

Early I came, and as my feet 

First enter'd at the door, 
" Remember," to myself I said, 

" You must dismiss at four." 

But slates and books and maps appear. 

And many a dear one cries, 
" Please tell us whence that river sprang, 

" And where those mountains rise, 

" And when that blind, old monarch reign'd, 

And who was king before. 
And stay a little after five. 

And tell us something more." 



■ SKETCH. 253 

And then our darling Alice comes, 

And who unmov'd can view 
The glance of that imploring eye, 

" Oh ! teach me something^ tooP 

Yet who would think, amid the toil, 

(Tho' scarce a toil it be,) 
That through the door the Muses coy 

Should deign to peep at me ! 

Methought their glance was strange and cold, 

As though it fain would say, 
" We did not know you kept a school, 

"We must have lost our way." 

Their visit was but short indeed 

As these slight numbers show, 
Btit ah ! they bade me write with speed. 

Dear friend, I cannot go. 

I think our silent favorite was a child of 
genius. Originality, and considerable histri- 
onic talent, were early developed. I was in- 
debted to her for a new idea, that the hand 
and eye possessed an eloquence which had 
been heretofore claimed as the exclusive priv- 
ilege of the tongue ; that the language of 
the speechless might find an avenue to the 
soul, though all unaided by the melody of 



254 SKETCH. 

sound. Her perceptive and imitative powers 
were also conspicuous. Wiiat she observed 
others do, she was anxious to attempt herself, 
and sanguine in expecting success. When 
she saw her companions addressing letters to 
me, she rested not until she obtained permis- 
sion also to become my correspondent. Her 
chirography was fair and bold, for a child of 
nine years of age, but few, with all the obsta- 
cles by which she was surrounded, would thus 
have voluntarily assumed the labor of linking 
written speech with thought. 

At first, with only a few nouns and verbs at 
command, she fearlessly encountered a' mys- 
terious host of auxiliaries, and connectives ; 
and a few extracts from her letters, which I 
have carefully preserved, will show both her 
perseverance, and her improvement. One of 
her earliest literary efforts took the rather 
ambitious subject of the illumination, on the 
return of peace in the winter of 1815. 

" The world — all peace. — Now am I glad, 
— Many candles in windows. — Shine bright 



SKETCH. 255 

on snow. — Houses most beautiful. — Friends 
at my home that night, and one baby. 

" Sorry is Alice — you have no brother — no 
sister. — My sisters, three, — my brothers, one. 
— They are beautiful. — Sorry am I you never 
had any. — My father and my mother. — Much 
I love all. 

*' Girls, fifteen in school. — You teach. — 
You write, and give letters. — Cleopatra I 
learn — great queen — face very handsome — 
say to maid, — bring basket — figs — asp bite 
arm — swell — die. 

" Xerxes, proud king — very many soldiers 
— go to fight Greeks — come back creeping — 
many men killed. 

" Zones, five ; — one warm, all people faint ; 
two very cold — two half hot, half cold — tem- 
perate. 

'' I have see New Haven. — My sister and 
I. — We lived at Mrs. Hillhouse's. — I was 
much shaken in the awful stage. — Beautiful 
houses — very many. — Peaches and apples — 



256 SKETCH. 

sweet and good. — I like ladies. — Many walks. 
— I love very much New Haven. — I think 
Hartford best. — My Burgundy rose — short — 
red — very bright — in my garden. — My young 
sister pluck buds. — She rose-bud too. — I very 
much love my rose in garden, and my young 
sister. 

" Mr. Gallaudet gone to Paris. — Come back 
with Mr. Clerc. — Teach deaf and dumb, new 
words, new signs. — Oh, beautiful. — I very 
afraid wind blow hard on Ocean — turn over 
ship. — Alice very afraid. — Mr. Gallaudet will 
pray Grod to keep, not drown. — Wind blow 
right way. — I very glad. 

" Rev. Dr. Strong dead. — He — very much 
knowledge — great preacher. — He tell all peo- 
ple to love Jesus Christ. — He very much love 
Him. — He went to see Jesus Christ. — Every- 
body very much sorry. — I am, oh, very sorry. 
— I see him no more. 

" You learn me text every morning. — I tell 
them you every night. — Oh, beautiful. — I love 
you.=— To-day you teaoh, ' Beloved, follow not 



SKETCH. 257 

that which is evil, but that which is good. 
He that doeth good, is of G-od.' " 

After the system of the illustrious Sicard 
was brought to this country, by the Rev. Mr. 
Gallaudet, and Mr. Clerc, and the American 
Asylum for the Deaf and Dumb established at 
Hartford, she became one of its distinguished 
pupils, and the nucleus of thought and feeling, 
which these spontaneous efforts of childhood 
disclose, expanded into a varied and polished 
style. Yet, pleasing associations linger around 
the first fragmentary unfoldings of a fine in- 
tellect, and a loving heart. 

Many of these mingle with her history, 
when she began to aid, according to her abil- 
ity, the charitable society which her school- 
mates had instituted. It was during an un- 
commonly severe winter that she first accom- 
panied the almoners on a visit of distribution. 
It would be scarcely possible for any child of 
her tender age, with all the instrumentalities 
of speech, to have uttered a more eloquent 
22* 



258 SKETCH. 

description, than she gave me at her return, 
in her silent dialect of the hand and eye. 

" We entered a little upper room. The 
stairs were dark and broken. We had walked 
through deep snows. My feet were very cold. 
But there was not fire to warm them. No. 
I could have held in one small hand, those 
few, faint coals. Neither was there any 
wood. No. 

^' The poor woman lay in a low bed. Half 
sitting up, she shivered, for she wore only old, 
thin garments. 

*'And she had a sick baby. It was pale 
and threw its arms about. I think it cried. 
But there was no doctor there. No, none. 

" The father came in. He had in his hand 
a few pieces of pine. He had gathered them 
in the streets. He laid them on the fire. His 
wife spoke to him. Then he looked sorry. I 
asked my friends what she said. The words 
of the poor woman to her husband were, — 

* Did you bring a candle V He answered, — 

* No. I have no money to buy a candle.' 
Then there were tears on her cheeks, as she 



SKETCH. 259 

said, — ^ Must we be in the dark, another long, 
cold night, with our sick child V " 

As she proceeded to describe the relief im- 
parted, and the snniles that came suddenly 
over the faces of the sorrowing poor, a tear of 
exquisite feeling glistened in her eye. Not 
the slightest circumstance escaped her dis- 
criminating notice, and her heart was true to 
every generous sensibility. 

Filial affection was among her prominent 
virtues. It was with her not only a duty but 
a delight, to testify gratitude, and try to serve 
those wdiose tenderness had nurtured her in- 
fancy. But peculiarly, in her love for her 
father, the late Dr. Mason F. Cogswell, known 
and remembered by so many as the " beloved 
physician," there seemed almost a feature of 
idolatry. Its enthusiasm gathered strength 
with years. When he w^as taken from her 
by acute disease, she drooped, as if bewil- 
dered by the shock of grief. " My heart 
grew to his," said she, in her strong language 
of gesture. '' It cannot be separated." And 



260 TRIBUTE. 

in a few days her turf-pillow was by his 
side. 

May we not imagine her, from a higher and 
purer region, thus addressing the cherished 
objects of kindred affection ? 

Sisters ! there's music here ; 

From countless harps it flows, 
Throughout this bright celestial sphere, 
Nor pause nor discord knows. 
The seal is melted from my ear 

By love divine, 
And what through life I pined to hear. 

Is mine ! Is mine ! 
The warbling of an ever-tuneful choir, 
And the full deep response of David's sacred lyre. 
Did kind earth hide from me 
Her broken harmony. 
That thus the melodies of heaven might roll. 
And whelm in deeper tides of bliss, my rapt, my won- 
dering soul ? 

Joy ! • I am mute no more. 

My sad and silent years 
With all their loneliness are o'er. 
Sweet sisters ! dry your tears ; 
Listen at hush of eve — listen at dawn of day — 
List at the hour of prayer — can ye not hear my lay ? 
Untaught, unchecked, it came. 
As light from chaos beamed, 
19 



TRIBUTE. 261 

Pmis^ing His everlasting name 

Whose blood from Calvary streamed, 
And still it swells that highest strain, the song of the 
redeemed. 

Brother ! my only one ! 

Beloved from childhood's hours, 
With whom, beneath the vernal sun, 
I wandered when our task was done, 

And gathered early flowers, 
I cannot come to thee. 
Though 'twas so sweet to rest 
Upon thy gently guiding arm, thy sympathizing breast, 
'Tis better here to be. 
No disappointments shroud 

The angel-bowers of joy, 
Our knowledge hath no cloud, 

Our pleasures no alloy. 
The fearful word to part 

Is never breathed above. 
Heaven hath no broken heart — 

Call me not hence, my love. 

O mother ! He is here 

To whom my heart so grew, 
That when death's fatal spear 
Stretched him upon his bier, 

I fain must follow too ! 
His smile my infant griefs restrained, 

His image in my childish dream, 
And o'er my young affections, reigned 

With gratitude unuttered and supreme. 



262 TRIBUTE. 

But yet, till these refulgent skies burst forth in radiant 

show, 
I knew not half the unmeasured debt a daughter's 

heart doth owe. 

Ask ye, if still his heart retains his ardent glow ? 
Ask ye if filial love 
Unbodied sjDirits prove ? 
'Tis but a little space, and thou shalt rise to know. 
I bend to soothe thy woes, — 

How near — thou canst not see — 
I watch thy lone repose, 
Alice does comfort thee : 
To welcome thee, I wait ; blest mother ! come to me. 



The name of Miss Emily Tisdale Nichols, 
was dear to all her associates. The native 
warmth, and cheerfulness of her disposition, 
with a brilliant vein of wit, rendered her a 
prime favorite in seasons of joy. Her energy 
in devising, and her skill in executing, made 
her equally important in times of action and 
effort, especially when sickness needed aid, or 
poverty a helper. 

The last year of her life was pre-eminently 
marked by benevolent exertion, which seemed 
to have its spring and source in a rational, 
earnest piety. The Scriptures and books of 
deep devotion, were her daily counsellors. It 
was her desire, and fixed resolution to come to 
the table of her Saviour ; but on the Sabbath, 
when we expected her to commemorate with 
us, " His death whose rising was our salva- 



264 SKETCH. 

tion," she alas I was stretched on the couch of 
mortal disease. Spring was putting forth its 
fresh, early buds, but she, smitten and parch- 
ed by the fatal fever-stroke, faded in life's 
young blossom. 

Affections, the most sanguine and sacred, 
withered at her departure. One, whose voca- 
tion it is to minister at God's altar, had en- 
twined his fondest hopes of earthly happiness 
with her life. Yet though our sister was so 
dear to many hearts, we are not called to 
mourn, as those who refuse to be comforted, 
but rather to contemplate her gain, as one 
who hath forever entered into rest. To the 
infirmities that afflict the body, to the preju- 
dices that darken the mind, to the sins that 
enslave the soul, she hath bidden an eternal 
farewell. She hath arisen where " affection's 
cup hath lost the taste of tears." 

I saw her toiling for the unfed poor, 
Or bending o'er the couch of tossing pain 
Through the long watches of the wintry night. 
Why laid she thus their burdens to her heart, 
Forgetful of youth's pleasures ? Did some voice 
Prophetic, warn her that the clime drew near, 



TRIBUTE. 265 

Where are no sick to comfort, and no poor 
To need a garment ? 

Felt she that her step 
Was near the threshold where the weary rest ? 
We may not say what light was in her soul, 
For that blest Book which speaks the Eternal Mind, 
Was her close counsellor, and night and day 
She wooed its wisdom with a childlike love, 
Till the wild gladness of her nature took 
A deeper and a holier tint, like one 
Who girds his sabbath mantle meekly on, 
To tread God's courts. 

Come, 'tis a holy hour. 
The Easter morn empurpleth the far hills. 
And she, our Church, a weeping pilgrim long. 
Fast by the footsteps of her suffering Lord, 
Up to His cross, and downward to His tomb, 
Doth hail His rising. Lo ! her feast is spread, 
And thou art bidden, daughter. 'Twas thy prayei 
To lift thy young heart's banner up this day, 
Before His altar, and to join the host 
Who follow Him to death. Behold, they kneel 
With meek obedience to their Master's call. 
And through the consecrated emblems seek 
Remission of their sins. 

Why lingerest thou ? 
They pointed to a chamber and a couch. 
Where fever, with its red and quenchless fires, 
Wrought in life's citadel. Yet 'mid the pain 
And tossing of that sleepless agony, 

23 



266 TRIBUTE. 

When every nerve was quivering, and the veins 

Shrank from the lava tide that through them flowed, 

There rose a prayer to Jesus, and those hps 

So parched and palHd, spake the words of Heaven. 

— ^Death drew the curtain, and she slept in peace. 

But tears are flowing 'mid the pleasant halls 

Where her afiections rested, shedding forth 

Their brilliance like some never-setting sun. 

Yes, there are lingering sighs of mournful thought. 

Where poverty its naked hearth would trim, 

And frequent lispings of her name from babes 

Who by the robes that shield them from the storm, 

And by the holy lessons she had taught 

Upon the day of God, remember her. 

— But keener grief doth dwell in one lone heart. 

Which by the strongest links of earthly hope 

Had bound her to its love, so that each scene 

Of bright futurity — the Pastor's home, 

Altar and flock, and household hymn at eve, 

Were coupled with her image. Of such woe. 

Weak language speaketh not. 

But ye, who give 
Your angel- welcome to each* happy guest. 
That from time's tribulation riseth pure. 
Vouchsafe some echo from your thrilling harps 
That at Heaven's bliss, these clouds of earth may fade. 



Miss Harriette E. Wadsworth, a native of 
Geneseo, New York, and afterwards the wife 
of the Hon. Martin Brimmer of Boston, by 
her assiduity in acquiring knowledge, main- 
tained a high standing in her class at school, 
while her affectionate disposition, and noble 
frankness of manner, left traces on remem- 
brance as pleasing as they were indelible. 
The glance of her full, dark eye is still with 
me, as a thing of life. Wealth, with its many 
temptations, wrought in her well-balanced 
mind neither haughtiness nor self-indulgence. 

In the full maturity of womanly beauty, 
there was about her a striking, simple dignity 
of manner, a graceful and consistent perform- 
ance of every duty, that made her highly 
appreciated in the intellectual society w^here 



268 SKETCH. 

her lot was cast. Her lot was cast, but ah ! 
for how short a period. 

Beneath the aspect of vigorous health, ten- 
dencies to pulmonary disease were detected. 
Judicious and persevering regimen had seem- 
ed to arrest their progress, and as a temporary- 
residence on the island of Cuba, appeared to 
have had a salubrious effect, she was per- 
suaded to make a second voyage thither, in 
the autumn of 1832. She v/as accompanied 
by her husband, her little son, and other lov- 
ing, kindred spirits. They continued to cheer 
themselves with a hope which she had silently 
and calmly resigned. She felt that the foot- 
step of death was near. Not long after her 
establishment amid the glowing, gorgeous 
scenery in the neighborhood of Havana, she 
was removed, as we trust, to a more conge- 
nial clime, where no canker eats the rose, and 
the Spoiler's foot enters not. 

They said that with a smile she passed 

From her dear home away, 
That her bright eye at parting cast 

A strange, unearthly ray, 



TRIBUTE. 269 

That on her cheek, in brilliance rare, 

So warm a flush did burn, 
It seem'd the pledge and promise fair 

Of health and glad return. 

Yet many a trembling prayer for her 

Arose from friendship's train, 
That lov'd and lovely voyager 

Upon the faithless main. 
While lightly o'er the tossing wave 

The white-wing'd ship did glide, 
And those who thought to shield and save 

Press'd closer to her side. 

Full oft she mark'd with earnest joy 

That only mothers know, 
The wonder of her darling boy. 

At Ocean's changeful show. 
The finny forms that cleave its breast, 

The glancing sea-bird's flight, 
And dancing o'er the billows' crest 

The phosphorescent light. 

On yon green Isle, by balmy breeze, 

And fervid sunbeam blest, 
Where the " world-seeking Genoese" 

Hath found a couch of rest. 
Even there, where winter's tyrant gloom 

May never dare to roll, 
x\nd flowers emit uncheck'd perfume, 

Went down that flower of soul. 
23* 



270 TRIBUTE. 

Yet let not mourning love despair, 

Though darkest grief invade, 
This cypress-wreath hath blossoms fair 

Of hope that cannot fade ; 
'Twas hers to cheer the haunts of pain, 

To bless the good and wise. 
And lightly chasten'd, rise to gain 

A bliss that never dies. 



Miss Weltha F, Brown, was among our 
happy band, the impersonation of gentleness 
and loveliness. In early childhood, her re- 
flecting mind had been led to the contempla- 
tion of things beyond this world. At the age 
of seven, she was deeply and permanently im- 
pressed with the solemnity of the truths of 
religion, and at fourteen, her desire to profess 
her faith in her Redeemer was indulged, and 
she commemorated his dying love with an 
affecting humility. A lamb of his flock, she 
ever faithfully followed the Chief Shepherd, 
and was sheltered and guided by his care. 

In the bloom of her beautiful youth, she 
became the wife of the Rev. Henry Robinson, 
and devoted herself to her new sphere of duty, 
striving to be his helper, who labored in a 
saored vocation. One of her four little ones, 



272 SKETCH. 

who evinced uncommon mental precocity, and 
delight in religious instruction, was taken at 
the age of three and a half years to Him of 
whom she was fond of repeating, in her soft, 
silvery tones, " He gathereth the lambs with 
his arm and carrieth them in his bosom." 

The bereaved mother suffered the pain of 
infirm health, with great patience. Disease 
of the heart, was the messenger deputed to 
remove her from the interchange of earthly 
affection. The serenity of her religious trust 
amid seasons of anguish impressed all who 
were around her. When paroxysms of agony 
abated, she would be heard murmuring, in a 
low, faint voice, — 

" His way was much rougher, 
Much darker than mine, 
Did Jesus thus suflfer, 
And shall I repine ?" 

On the last day of her life, she said, — "I 
have an advocate with God, touched with the 
feeling of mine infirmities, who was in all 
points tempted as I am, yet without sin." 



TRIBUTE. 273 

When her little ones came around her bed, 
it was observed that her pale lips moved in 
prayer, commending them to the God in 
whom was her confidence. Then, laying her 
icy hand on the head of her only son, she 
uttered audibly the most earnest ^-upplica- 
tions. As speech failed, and the breath was 
ebbing away, she said, — " I look to Jesus 
Christ alone, the chief corner-stone, elect, 
precious." 

A blessed testimony, daughter and sister ! 
with which to close thy pilgrimage, and finish 
thy work on earth. 



I heard the voice of prayer, a mother's prayer, 
A dying mother for her only son. 

His childish brow was fiir, 
Her hand was on his head, 
Her parting words were said, 
Her work was done. 

And there were other footsteps round her bed. 
And other bird-hke tones, for " Mother dear^'' 

Asking with mournful tear, 
In vain ! In vain ! that gentle guide has fled,^ 
Her heart is pulseless laid low with the silent dead. 



274 TRIBUTE. 

On, thro' the darken'd valley, drear and cold, 

Mid the hoarse rush of Jordan's swelling wave, 
Alone she trod. Was there no earthly hold, 
No friend, no helper, no fond arm to save ? 
Down to the fearful grave 
In the firm courage of a faith serene, 

She dauntless press'd, 
Ancf as she drew the cord 
That bound her to her Lord 
More closely round her breast. 
The bright wing of the waiting angel spread 
More palpably, and mortal joys grew pale. 
Even fond affection's wail, 
Seem'd like the murmur'd sigh of Spring's forgotten 
gale. 

And thus the mother's prayer 

So often breath'd above 

In agonizing love, 
Rose to high praise of God's protecting care, 

As with a trustful eye 

Of Christian constancy. 
On his strong love, her infant charge she laid, 

Teaching the mournful band 

How a weak woman's hand 
Wrestling with suffering and with sin, 
Might from the last grim tyrant win 
The victory. 



Miss Charlotte M'Crae, a native of the 
West Indies, seems in remembrance like ? 
fleeting, ethereal vision; for coming to us 
only in the last year of our school, her inter- 
course with us was as brief, as it was delight- 
ful. She was beautiful in person and coun- 
tenance, and of winning manners. On more 
than one occasion, her serious and sweet hu- 
mility of deportment during the sacred wor- 
ship of the Sabbath, was remarked by stran- 
gers. She was greatly beloved by her young 
friends, for her disposition was obliging, and 
her heart touchingly affectionate. The ad- 
miration that her beauty excited, and the 
elegance that wealth threw around her, caused 
no assumption of vanity, or departure from 
simplicity. Being of Scottish descent, she 
was imbued with a peculiar love for the 



276 SKETCH. 

" Land of brown heath and shaggy wood, 
Land of the mountain and the flood, 
Land of her sires." 

In her eighteenth summer she was married 
to Edmund B. Yass, Esq., also of Scottish 
ancestry, and became a resident of our sunny 
south. From her fair Floridian home, the 
notices that reached us were few, and far 
between. The cares of a southern matron, 
and the rearing of three little ones, occupied 
her thoughts. Her kind nature was tenderly 
observant even of mute dependents, and one 
of her domestic amusements was the super- 
intendence of a large flock of fine poultry, 
which she often fed with her own hand, stu- 
dying their welfare and prosperity, as a 
science. A picture was once drawn of her, 
by a graphic pen, with an apron full of corn, 
which she scattered with her own fairy grace 
of movement, among troops of chickens. There 
seemed an affinity between this commendable 
deportment of feminine economy, and her 
gentle nature, regarding the happiness of the 
humblest creature. 



TRIBUTE. 277 

In the summer of 1833, about nine years 
after her marriage, one of those sudden and 
violent tornadoes arose, by which our southern 
climes are sometimes visited. Why she should 
have thrown open the front door, and stepped 
from the verandah, while the sweeping whirl- 
wind was in full power, is not known. At the 
same instant one of the lofty trees that shaded 
her mansion fell, crushing her fair form be- 
neath its ponderous weight. Her husband 
and brother rushed to her side, but she was 
lifeless. Three little daughters gathered around 
her, in despairing grief, but she was to speak 
to them on earth no more. She had become 
a denizen of the land where storms have no 
place. 

A lily of the vale 

Sprang up, serene and fair, 
The sister flow'rets lov'd its charms, 

And prais'd its fragrance rare. 

Instinct with modest grace 

It shunn'd the gazer's view, 
Though soft perfume betray'd the place 

Where its pure petals grew. 
24 



278 TRIBUTE. 

Thus fled its dewy morn, 
But clouds at noon-day rose, 

And wildly o'er its home the winds 
Rag'd like relentless foes, 

They reft the clasping vine, 
They wreck'd the lordly tree, 

And, broken lily of the vale. 
We shed the tear for thee. 



Miss Frances E. Stedman was my pupil 
during the last year of my service as a teacher. 
She possessed good talents, and was attached 
to her school and associates. This affection- 
ate feeling was reciprocated, and our inter- 
course, though not long, was a source of im- 
provement and mutual happiness. 

In 1832, she was married to Mr. James S. 
Clarke, and still continued to cheer by her 
presence the paternal abode, which had been 
left in sadness by the death of a beloved 
mother. The duties and joys that cluster 
around the sacred names of wife, daughter, and 
sister, rendered her love of home so entire that 
she seldom left it, even for the variation of 
a journey. 

But these blended satisfactions were to be 
of short duration. Consumption, that subtle 
and insatiate foe, which delights to make the 



280 TRIBUTE. 

fairest its prey, and has so often fed upon our 
most precious ones, marked her for a victim. 
Its progress was insidious, and rapid. The 
rose that kindled, and burned amid the snows 
of her brow, and the unearthly lustre of her 
eye, disclosed the ravage that it strove to con- 
ceal beneath a veil of added beauty. 

In less than three years after her marriage, 
she was consigned to the tomb. 

Can we forget the buds that wove 
Bright garlands round our tent ? 

The links that from our chain of love 
By death's stern grasp were rent ? 

The smiles that round our peaceful hall 

Beam'd like the morning ray, 
The tones that answer'd to our call 

In music, — where are they ? 

"We mourn them lost, but Thou, our God, 
Shalt guard their peaceful sleep, 

And in Thy casket of the sod 
The rich deposit keep. 

And bid the grave each atom tell 

Thou to its charge hast given 
And raise our " sown in tears" to swell 

The harvest-song of Heaven. 



Miss Mary Jane Averill was quite young 
when entrusted to my care as a pupil, but 
evinced a maturity of mind beyond her years. 
Her perceptions were rapid, and her imagina- 
tion active, yet not overbalancing her judg- 
ment. Her affectionate dispositions render all 
our interchanged memories of teacher and pu- 
pil like a strain of sweet music. 

She possessed a native poetical impulse, and 
the power of readily adapting it to the passing 
occurrences of human life. I extract a few 
lines from her thoughts at the grave of one of 
her former school companions. Miss M. A. Colt, 
who is mentioned at the 232nd page of this 
book. 

" Just as the western sun 
Threw o'er the horizon's verge a parting ray, 
Giving to all new life and loveliness, 
24* 



282 SKETCH. 

His last, bright tinge of glory, — at the grave 
We stood, of one we lov'd. 

Backward we look'd 
And saw her young, and beautiful, and gay, 
Among the gay, sparkling with hope and joy ; 
And then again when sorrow mark'd her brow, 
A draught of sweetest, purest happiness, 
Had risen to charm her taste. 

Those dreams of bliss 
Where are they now ^ 

Raise thou the eye of faith 1 
Hath she not gone to taste of purer joys ? 
In realms above awaits she not her friends ? 
Ah yes ! we trust her home is with her God." 

In the autumn of 1825, Miss Averill was 
married to Elisha Peek, Esq., and devoted her 
ardent affections to the participation and cul- 
ture of home-happiness. An effusion written 
just before this important change in her con- 
dition, is beautiful both as an expression of her 
own views of life, and as a tribute of love to 
the memory of a departed mother. 

" The scenes of other days arise to view, 
And forms of early friends are present too, 
In this lone hour they pass before my mind, 
Leaving a trace of sadness undefin'd. 



SKETCH. 283 

What tho' the past in memory's tints array'd, 
Lives with its former charms still undecay'd, 
What tho' the scenes of childhood are confest 
By all, to be the dearest, and the best. 
It is not mine to wish their quick return, 
Though radiant with the forms whose loss I mourn, 
Nor is it mine to sigh o'er friendships riven. 
The lov'd of earth — are they not saints in heaven ? 

Perchance some unseen spirit o'er my head 
Is hovering near, the Spirit of the dead ! 
Imagination lends its aid, I hear 
A mother's voice, low breathing on my ear, 
A mother's voice ! in tones how sweet and mild, 
Its long remember'd accents sigh, — ' My child. 
My daughter dear, since this vain world I left 
Of my kind care, thou hast not been bereft ; 
I have been with thee ; yes, the form so dear 
Of thy maternal friend hath hover'd near. 
And now thou hop'st to taste of joys replete, 
Joys where no venom lurks beneath the sweet : 
I once before thee trod that pleasing road. 
Hoping for bliss that, earth might ne'er corrode, 
Yet here I found it not, I turu'd to heaven. 
There look, my child — ask, and it shall be given.' " 

In her new sphere of action, a loving heart 
combining with innate discretion and strength 
of character, were pleasantly unfolded, and un- 
consciously to herself, influenced all around. 
She had no ambition to shine in general so- 



284 SKETCH. 

ciety, but preferred a small circle of select 
friends, to whom she was ardently attached, 
and who reciprocated her regard. The care 
of two little girls occupied much of her 
thought, and taught her the new joy of ma- 
ternal love. At intervals of leisure, she still 
cultivated her talent for poetry, and though 
some of her prf>ductions show that a vein of 
sprightliness was inherent in her mind, the 
greater part breathe a spirit of congenial piety. 

PROPHETIC DEW-DROPS. 

" Oh ! didst thou think their fate thine own, 
When those pure dew-drops brightly shone 
Glittering upon the rainbow zone 

Of Heaven? 
Was it thy wish so soon to be 
Transplanted in thy purity, 
And set amid the jewehy 

Of Heaven ? 
And yet how sudden was the blight 
The shadow o'er thine early light, 
How soon exhaled, to sparkle bright 

In Heaven. 
Thy prayer was heard, to shine hke them, 
Resplendent as the choicest gem 
That glows within the diadem 

Of Heaven.'* 



SKETCH. 285 

SABBATH EVE. 

" Think, when the sun dedines, 
And his last glory shines 

Low in the west, 
How hath the Sabbath gone 
As it sped swiftly on, 

Unto its rest ? 

Have our thoughts been with God, 
In His most blest abode 

Unto Him given ? 
Have our sweet strains of praise 
Borne up in joyful lays 

Incense to heaven ? 

If our hopes onward fled. 
Thro' cloudless realms to tread 

Fill'd with delight, 
Then has our worship here, 
Mingled with those who wear 

Pure robes of white. 

So, the bright Sabbath-eve 
Record of love shall leave, 

And the soul free 
From the world's toil and pain, 
May for itself attain 

Part with yon holy train 
Eternally." 



286 SKETCH. 

Her life, as well as her written thoughts, 
gave proof that her piety continued to gather 
depth, and fervor. Her health was often in- 
firm, and her malady, an affection of the 
heart, caused the belief that her sojourn on 
earth would be short, and its termination sud- 
den. This impression gave the tenderness al- 
most of parting counsels to her instructions of 
her little daughters, and to the writings in 
which she dedicates them to G-od, pleading 
His promises, and entreating that they may be 
brought up in the love of their Saviour, and 
kept in the way of righteousness. During her 
seasons of sickness, it was touching to see 
them every night, ere retiring, kneel at her 
side to say their simple prayer, while in the 
fulness of her heart she offered her maternal 
supplications. 

One of them, now herself a mother, grate- 
fully says, '' To me she seemed almost as a 
perfect being, for I can remember only her 
patience, and sweetness of disposition, and 
the smile so full of affection that she used to 
bestow on us. These memories of the dear 



SKETCH. 2S7 

departed one come often over me, like strains 
of distant music falling tenderly and sadly 
upon the heart. There are many precious re- 
cords of her faith and love, and some writings 
which are a cherished legacy to her children, 
whispering a silent monition to follow her in 
the path to Heaven." 

Early in the summer of 1836 she was in- 
duced to go for a short visit to friends in 
New York, being in comparatively good health. 
But there, her latent disease, with brief warn- 
ing, dealt its final blow, and she was brought 
back a lifeless corse to her desolated home. 

Her death was at the age of twenty-nine, 
and took place on the Sabbath, that day 
whose holy rest she so much loved. The 
following simple hymn has a mournful in- 
terest as being her last, and written on the 
last Sabbath that she spent in this mortal 
abode. 

" How sweet the promise of our Lord 
To those who love and trust His Word, 
'Tis heaven within the breast when we 
Are fill'd with love and purity. 



288 SKETCH. 

We long within his courts to greet; 
And worship at his holy seat, 
To lift our voice in heartfelt praise, 
And with his flock our prayers to raise. 

Yet, Lord, we would submissive be, 
Commune with our own hearts and Thee, 
Grateful that Thou wilt thus descend 
And thus the contrite soul befriend. 

Soon we may tread thy courts above, 
And view thy face, and sing thy love, 
Soon there may be our home, and we 
Will praise throughout eternity." 



Miss Mary Lathrop, a native of West 
Springfield, Massachusetts, was distinguished 
as a member of our school, by faithful atten- 
tion to every requirement, as well as by the 
sweet lineaments of countenance, and har- 
monies of character. The elements of feeling 
and action there revealed, justified a prediction 
of that excellence which was more fully dis- 
closed when she became the wife of the Rev. 
Dr. "William B. Sprague, and removing to 
Albany, entered on a wider sphere of respon- 
sibility. 

Not only was she a companion, but a 

helper. It was her wish to understand and 

assume the guidance of domestic affairs, that 

her husband, by exemption from their care, 

might have a mind free for the duties of his 
25 



290 SKETCH. 

sacred office, and the preparation of the vari- 
ous works by which he has assiduously en- 
deavored to benefit mankind. One who was 
well qualified to form an estimate of her vir- 
tues, as they were unfolded by life's duties, 
and changes, thus bears testimony : 

" Her works of charity were the offspring 
of love, not of vain display. Within the 
home-circle, the excellencies of her character 
were indeed conspicuous and exemplary. The 
united and affectionate circle, the cheerful 
happy fireside, the thronging friends, the kind 
and cordial greeting, the assiduous attentions, 
all proclaimed a well-ordered household, a 
well-ordered heart and life, and spoke a praise 
to which woman may love to listen. Beyond 
that circle, her benevolence, like the genial 
warmth of Spring, was felt rather than seen, 
by all around her. She was endowed with a 
prompt and lively perception of the feelings 
of others, and governed by an exact discretion, 
which never permitted her to disturb indi- 
vidual peace, or social tranquillity. If there 
were a single virtue, for which she was pre- 



SKETCH. 291 

eminently distinguished, it might be expressed 
by the term. Christian meekness.'''' 

We, who saw and loved her character in 
its forming state, were delighted that it should 
be thus drawn out in the full symmetry of 
feminine grace, and holiness. " Sounding 
brass and a tinkling cymbal" were not in the 
treasure-house of her gifts. As a " woman 
professing godliness," she adorned this life 
and approached another. From a group of 
lovely children and a large circle of attached 
friends, she was removed in the autumn of 
1837 at the age of thirty-three. Of her saintly 
demeanor as the close of life drew nigh, the 
Rev. President Nott, in his funereal tribute, 
thus eloquently speaks. 

*' In the same calm trust, was the response 
returned from her bed of death, whose dust 
we have just committed to the dust, and the 
absence of whose sainted spirit it is ours to 
mourn. Not the thought of final separation 
from that band of worshippers with whom 
she was wont to meet in this House of 
God, nor from those desolate poor who had 



292 TRIBUTE. 

hitherto shared her charity, or those helpless 
orphans who would hereafter need her coun- 
sel, not the anguish of her companion in the 
prospect of bereavement, nor the plaint of 
her children about to be written motherless, 
not the sigh of sorrow-stricken parents, nor the 
tears of sympathizing friends, who witnessed 
that impressive death-scene, could disturb 
her tranquillity, or divert her heaven-directed 
eye from those mansions of rest to which she 
felt she had a title through the merits of a Sa- 
viour. On him, in this crisis of her being, she 
cast her cares, on him she anchored her hope, 
and thus sustained, met death as the disciples 
of such a Master ought to meet it, with de- 
vout and holy resignation." 

I well remember thee, — thy gentle grace, 
The tender beauty of thine early prime, 

The meek expression of thy serious face, 
So earnest bending o'er the page sublime. 

Yes, I remember thee, amid a train 

Of sister-spirits moved with studious art 

From learning's mine the priceless gold to gain, 
And root the holiest virtues in the heart. 



TRIBUTE. 293 

Years from thy cheek youth's opening blossom bore, 
Yet still a richer glow its place supplied, 

Such as the soul's deep fountains gushing pour 
In hving crimson, o'er the hallowed bride, 

Such as the matron's Heaven-illumined brow 
Tints with the dialect of prayerful love ; 

Years swiftly sped, but ah ! where art thou now ? 
Thy cherished children, weeping, point above. 

'Tis meet to mourn home's blooming garland seared, 
The sweet-voiced charmer from the fire-side fled, 

The mother smitten 'mid the plants she reared, 
And fond affection's dearest treasure dead. 

And yet, 'tis meet to praise the Hand that bore. 
The patient sufferer from her pains away. 

Nerved her sure wing to reach the eternal shore, 
And op'd the portals of unfading day. 



Miss Eliza Grew, a native of Providence, 
Rhode Island, was at her entrance into our 
school about the age of thirteen, and exhibited 
a development of mind, and especially a solid- 
ity of judgment, beyond what is usual at 
that period of life. Her opinions were thought- 
fully formed, and her written sentiments ex- 
pressed clearly, and without difFuseness. Her 
sobriety of deportment was conspicuous, and 
scarcely any temptation was sufficient to bring 
a smile over her features, during the hours 
allotted to study. 

Her complexion was pale, her light hair 
abundant and beautiful, and advancing youth 
gave her form a fine symmetry, and her fea- 
tures a cast of elevated and serene beauty. 
She had a native taste for the attainment of 
languages, and made considerable progress in 



SKETCH. 295 

Greek, without the aid of a teacher. She pos- 
sessed not only the "cordial regard, but the re- 
spect of her companions at school, which they 
continued to cherish for her, after that union 
was dissolved. 

Her mind was early disposed to serious 
piety, but so high was her innate standard, 
and so severe her habits of self-examination, 
that several years passed away, ere she had 
confidence to make a public profession of faith 
in her Redeemer. After this transaction, she 
writes, " How shall I ever be able to keep the 
solemn covenant into which I have now en- 
tered ? It is only through Him whose strength 
is made perfect in weakness. 

" ' I trust in Thee, and know in whom I trust. 
Or life, or death is equal : neither weighs : 
All weight in this, O let me live to Thee.' " 

In the summer of 1830, she was married 
to the Rev. Dr. John T. Jones, and appointed 
by the Baptist Board of Foreign Missions to 
Burmah, whither they almost immediately 
sailed. It was with no slight degree of satis- 



296 SKETCH. 

faction, that we saw one of our former band 
willing and able to accept such sacred respon- 
sibilities. We imagined that we had traced 
in her, elements of the same energy and self- 
devotedness that distinguished the first Mrs. 
Judson, and predicated that in similar cir- 
cumstances, she would exhibit similar Chris- 
tian heroism. 

The capacity she had early evinced for the 
acquisition of languages, now contributed to 
give her superiority in one important depart- 
ment of missionary service. In the construc- 
tion of lexicons, and preparation of elementary 
works, she was indefatigable. 

In one of her letters, she mentions, " You 
will rejoice with me when I tell you that I 
have at last finished the Siamese dictionary, 
the arrangement and copying of which has 
been my chief business in that language, for 
nearly a year past. It contains many thou- 
sand words, but will require much correction 
hereafter. I hope it may be useful." 

Still pursuing her philological researches, 
she writes three years after, ** I have recently 



SKETCH. 297 

been devising a plan for writing Siamese, in 
the roman character, endeavouring to make 
it correspond as nearly as possible to the other 
languages of India. These, through the in- 
defatigable labors of some philanthropists in 
Hindostan, are fast becoming romanized. The 
poMrers thus given to the roman letters are the 
same, as in the language of the Sandwich 
Islands:" 

Amid these intellectual pursuits, hear her 
sweet testimony to the humbler task of a 
teagher in her own household school of hea- 
then. " If I have ever felt that it was small 
business to be attending personally to the 
teaching of ten children and youth, I remem- 
ber Him who took the little ones in his arms 
and blessed them, and am ashamed of my un- 
worthy ambition, and thankful to be employed 
in any way, for the cause of Jesus." 

Nearly eight years, she untiringly labored, 
and meekly endured privations among the be- 
nighted heathen. Two little ones she had laid 
in the grave, and for two others, her strong 
maternal love was ever active in effort, and in 



298 SKETCH. 

prayer. But the end had come. In the 
spring of 1838, the fearful Asiatic cholera 
made her its victim. To her last moment, she 
had the full enjoyment of reason. To the pu- 
pils whom she had long taught, and the ser- 
vants whom she summoned to her bedside, 
she said, — " I am about to die. — But I fear 
not death. — Never forget what I have taught 
you. — Follow it. — Repent. — Trust in Christ. 
May we meet in heaven." 

The dark-browed nurse stood near, with the 
darling, infant daughter in her arms. To her, 
the departing one said, — " The child will now 
have no mother. — Take good care of her. — 
And become yourself a disciple of Christ." 

Her little son climbed up to her, and how 
full of tenderness were those low, sweet tones, 
— •' Howard, be a good boy. — Then we shall 
see each other in Heaven." 

Her lifeless form reposes beneath the wav- 
ing shades of Pagan Asia, by the side of the 
two little ones who preceded her to perfect 
rest. Her husband writes, — " What she was 
to me as a wife, a mother, a counsellor, a 



SKETCH. 299 

fellow-laborer, none can tell, but He who 
knows all. Her counsel was invaluable, her 
labors abundant. Beside the good she did 
while in Barmah, two poor Burman women 
here, in Siam, converted, we trust, by her in- 
strumentality, have preceded her to glory. 
Two more, of whom we have strong hopes 
that they are true Christians, remain, and 
wept her early departure. Many about us, 
and many at a distance, will long remember 
her unwearied instructions. 

" She wrote much for the Siamese. A large 
school-book has been printed, which owes all 
its Siamese to her. She long since wrote in 
that language the histories of Joseph and of 
Nebuchadnezzar. She had lately written that 
of Moses, bringing down the history of the 
Israelites to their entrance into Canaan. The 
two first, she had carefully revised and en- 
larged the present year. The latter was 
finished only three or four days before her 
death. They will be printed and read per- 
haps for centuries. 

'' She had recently turned her attention to 



300 TRIBUTE. 

Siamese poetry, and written several hymns. 
Her Siamese and English dictionary, is an 
immense work, and will prove of incalculable 
service to future missionaries. These are but 
parts of what she did. But she rests from her 
labors, and her works will follow her." 

This feeling tribute from her heart's best 
friend, is rendered more full and descriptive, 
by an extended memoir, the second edition of 
which is now about to issue from the press. 
By it, she " being dead, yet speaketh ;" and 
the words that are so dear to those who knew 
and loved her, will, we trust, be precious, and 
powerful, to future generations. 

'Tis sad, yet pleasant to remember thee 
As when I first beheld thee, meek and sweet, 
And bending with a student's deep intent 
Over thy daily lesson. Thou wert twined 
As in a rose-wreath, with the fervent group 
Of fair and joyous creatures, while swift years 
Fled all unheeded by. 

Still I retrace, 
Vivid as though it were but yesterday, 
Thy gentle kindness, blent with firm resolve, 
In every path of duty ; and that strength 
Of well-developed principle which scarce 



TRIBUTE. 301 

Comports with childhood. Ah ! I little thought, 
While watching o'er thy progress day by day, 
That Asia's sun would shine upon thy grave. 

Youth brought its ripening bloom, and beauty played 

O'er thy calm features. Yet thou didst not deem 

Improvement bounded by the narrow line 

That marks the school-room, but didst Hngering sit 

A lonely student with a lighted brow 

Treasuring the wealth of language ; — that which gave 

The ancient lore of philosophic Greece 

Power o'er the nations, — and that holier one 

Which told man's joy in paradise, when God 

And angels were his guests. But not for these 

Thy classic pleasures, was the pearl of price 

Neglected or forgot. With hallowed zeal 

Christ's dear example was thine early choice, 

To bear His yoke, to show His spirit forth, 

Thy true delight. How were the joys of home, 

The charms of friendship heightened by thy deeds 

Of tender piety. 

There came a change, — 
A solemn throng upon the summer strand, — 
A ship with white sails set, — a hymn, — a prayer, — 
Blessings, — and parting tears, — and thou wert gone ! 

Who sitteth with a train of Burman babes 
Around her knee ? Who teacheth them to wrap 
In their own uncouth speech the warmth of prayer, 
And toils so patiently to bind the links 
26 



302 TRIBUTE. 

Of prayer with duty, in their softened hearts ? 
Who counteth hardships light, if she may win 
One soul to Christ ? Who kneeleth by the couch 
Of yon poor dying woman, breathing soft 
The gospel-promise to her heathen ear, 
And laboring still to turn her darkened eye 
From Boodh and Gaudama to the Cross ? 

But lo ! another scene, — when Siam's sun 

Looks fiercely down. I hear the pagan wail 

For the lost teacher, — the heart-stricken prayer 

Of him who sees the idol wife depart 

From his lone bosom, — and the wondering woe 

Of those young babes, who stretch their arras in vain 

To their dead mother. 

So her grave is made 
'Tween two fair infant forms, who went to sleep 
Before her — where the shade of foreign trees 
Droops mournfully. 

Daughter and friend, farewell ! 
Thou whose high praise is in thy fatherland, 
And 'mid the Asian tribes. I count it joy, 
I count it honor to have shed one drop 
Of dew upon thee, in thy budding hour, 
Risen as thou art from labor to reward. 
Ineffable, eternal, as the God 
Who was thy trust from life's unfolding dawn. 



Miss Frances Ann Brace was the young- 
est pupil that I ever received under my 
charge. On the morning of the 1st of August, 
1814, at the age of six years, she came as a 
lamb to our gentle and loving flock. She 
united precocity of intellect and attainment, 
with a remarkably amiable, thoughtful char- 
acter. Before her second birth-day, she was 
acquainted with the alphabet, and at four read 
well, and with pleasure. At five, she had 
taught herself to write, and found amusement 
in simple epistolary composition. 

Prepared as I was, by this information, to 
admit her among my chosen band of fifteen, 
it was still not without surprise, that I saw 
her assume with entire self-possession and ap- 
parent ease, the intellectual labor of a class, 
many of whom were twice, and some almost 



304 SKETCH. 

thrice her own age. Her ambition was to 
keep up with them in every study. But her 
friends deemed it best to preclude her from 
that of arithmetic, not desiring to make her a 
prodigy, at the expense of physical welfare. 
They believed that close attention to the 
grammar and parsing of her native language, 
writing, orthography, with critical definitions, 
composition, geography, history, with chron- 
ology both ancient and modern, would fur- 
nish sufficient employment for the mind of so 
young a child. She obeyed, as she always 
did, but whether the prohibition deepened her 
innate desire, I cannot say. She, indeed, ab- 
stained from the practical exercise of arith- 
metic, but to the recitations of the class and 
the explanations given them, listened so in- 
tently, as to possess herself of the principles 
of the science. AVhen she at length obtained 
permission at home to pursue it, the rapturous 
delight with which the child of six summers 
produced her slate and advanced to join the 
class, brought over her fair face the fervent 
and beautiful expression of sixteen. It was 



SKETCH. 305 

found that by observation she had perfectly- 
taught herself, the first of the four grand 
rules. She was therefore placed in the second, 
and at the expiration of the hour allotted to 
arithmetic, had performed a greater number 
of sums than any of the other young ladies. 
She was perfectly tremulous with the pleasure 
of this new pursuit, yet with, her character- 
istic humility, qualified the commendation ac- 
corded her, by the remark that the problems 
assigned to her companions, were more dif- 
ficult than her own. The order and applica- 
tion, which were features of her mind, pre- 
pared her to enjoy the science of demonstra- 
tion ; yet, I know not that her zeal in its 
researches evinced a peculiar preference for it, 
so much as a deep-seated love and a ruling im- 
pulse to possess herself of all knowledge. 

One of her prominent accomplishments was 
fine reading. A previous instructor of long 
experience and high reputation had said " it 
was honor enough for him to have taught her 
elocution." Every word, every vowel had in 
her clear tones their full sound ; and her cor- 



306 SKETCH. 

rect emphasis, and power of entering into the 
spirit of the author, whether in poetry or 
prose, far transcended her years. I sometimes 
placed her, my youngest little one, on an 
elevated seat, to read a few sentences to the 
whole school, as a model. Her audience 
pleasantly attended to her example, and the 
distinction wrought in her mind no self-com- 
placence. Was not this praise for both ? 

Her recitations were admirable. She had a 
conscientiousness which would not permit her 
to appear with an ill-committed lesson. The 
anxiety sometimes attendant on a rapid course 
of questioning, especially where several studies 
were reviewed, subsided as her turn came, for 
I felt reliance on her general correctness, and 
knew that her replies would be always audi- 
bly and gracefully rendered. To every minu- 
tiae of discipline she was strictly obedient. 
She seemed early to realize that to be dis- 
tinguished by proficiency in study, yet to 
thwart, or give pain to a teacher, was a 
moral contradiction. So consistent was her 
example that during the five years she con- 



SKETCH. 307 

tinued with us as a pupil, it cannot be recol- 
lected that she violated the slightest rule, 
not even so much as to leave her seat, or 
speak, or sign to a companion, u'ithout liberty. 
The sentiment of respect was fully developed 
in her character, and united to a sweet sedate- 
ness of manner, made her a great favorite 
with the aged ; while her peculiar truthfulness 
and good sense caused her to be implicitly re- 
lied on by the young. 

To the charitable designs, and religious 
exercises of her school, she was invariably 
attentive. Her recapitulations, on Monday, 
of the sermons heard the preceding day, 
proved that in the house of God, she was no 
careless listener. Respect and love for reli- 
gion and its duties, had been impressed on her 
mind by those who had guided her from in- 
fancy. Through the divine blessing, the seed 
thus sown produced early and healthful fruit. 
At the age of thirteen she professed her faith 
in her dear Saviour, uniting with his flock, 
and faithfully following that Chief Shepherd, 
whether he led her through green pastures, 



308 SKETCH. 

beside the still waters, or through the dark 
valley, down to the swelling of Jordan. 

A sense of the worth of time, and habits of 
systematic industry were conspicuous in her, 
not only as a pupil but throughout the whole 
of life. Useful employment for the comfort 
of others, rather than her own, was her delight. 
She was ingenious with her needle, well- 
skilled in the details of domestic economy, 
and never allowed intellectual tastes or attain- 
ments to overshadow the humbler departments 
of feminine duty. Equally zealous and con- 
scientious was she in the sphere of benevo- 
lence. For seven years, she was a Sabbath- 
school teacher, winning the deep regard of 
those whom she instructed. She sustained 
offices in various charitable societies, where 
she displayed such clear judgment, and self- 
possession, that " none despised her youth." 

Among the beautiful traits of her character 
was a sweet filial devotedness to her venera- 
ble grand-parents. Born under their roof, and 
continuing to reside with them, until their 
death, her perfect respect, her affectionate de- 



SKETCH. 309 

portment, the gentle deference of her wishes 
to theirs, was most lovely and exemplary. 
One who was always a dweller with her bears 
testimony that "she never once gave them 
occasion either to reprove or admonish her, 
and so amiable was her disposition, that the 
inmates of the family recollect neither time 
nor place in which she gave an angry or 
hasty word to any one, but was ever kind and 
conciliatory to the humblest person." 

In the spring of 1830, she was married to 
James M. Bunce, Esq., of her native city, and 
in the sphere of new duties and affections dis- 
played the same virtues that distinguished 
her during her course of intellectual training. 
Especially in the nurture of her three sons, 
two of whom still survive her, she united to 
great maternal tenderness that judicious exer- 
cise of it, which improves rather than en- 
dangers the moral welfare of its object. While 
she required obedience and repressed way- 
ward inclinations, she labored to impress on 
the new-born immortal, true reverence and 
tender love for a Father in heaven. 



310 TRIBUTE. 

But her stay amid these sweet ministries 
was brief. A fatal consumption marked her 
for its own. Deeming it a duty to adopt 
every prescribed remedy that offered hope of 
recovery, she left home with her husband, in 
the summer of 1838, for the Red Sulphur 
Springs, in Virginia. Bat it was the will of 
the Almighty, that to the shadow of her own 
green trees, to the embrace of her loved little 
ones, she should return no more, save in the 
garniture of the grave. 

Desolate was the homeward journey of the 
husband, travelling night and day with his 
dead, and filled with that sorrow which only 
a Christian's faith could sustain. With sol- 
emn funeral ceremonies, her remains were laid 
by the side of her kindred, amid the sorrow 
of many hearts. 

I follow in thy train, thou who didst love 

To sit so close beside me with thy book, 

Lifting thy speaking eye, to scan my face. 

And time thy questions wisely to my cares. 

— And thou wouldst sometimes lay thy hand in mine 

"When summer-school was o'er, and lead the way 

To thine own pleasant home, bespeaking still 



TRIBUTE. 311 

For me the thinofs that unto thee were dear, 



Thy white-hair'd grandsire's welcome, or the walk 
In the rich flower-garden. So, I knew 
That in the pupil I had found a friend. 

I will not leave thee now, when thou dost take 
Thy silent, mournful journey. 

Thou of old 
"Wert sometimes timid, and didst love to rest 
Upon my guiding arm, but now behold. 
Lone on thy sable hearse thou leadst the way. 
Unshrinkingly, and marshallest to each 
The path himself must take, to that last home ^ 
Whence there is no return. 

Deep-stricken hearts 
Are near thy coffin, as the bier yields up 
Its hoarded treasure, and the cheek of love 
Turns deadly pale. Till the green turf is trod 
Firmly above the pillow of thy rest, 
I will not leave thee, daughter. 

Fain I'd wait 
Till the last lingerer turneth towards his home, 
And breathe one orison beside thy bed. 
Thou, who so oft hast pour'd the prayer with me. 
I'll be the last to leave. Wilt thou be first 
To give the kiss of heaven, if through the trust 
In our Redeemer's strength, I thither rise from dust ? 



Miss Susan Bunce, in her character as a 
scholar, was ever exemplary and lovely. Her 
whole deportment was the illustration of a 
kind heart, and an amiable temper. Interest- 
ing in her person, and conversation, piety 
early gave her an ornament that remained un- 
changed through life, that " meek and quiet 
spirit, which is precious in the sight of G-od." 

After her marriage, in the autumn of 1825, 
to Dr. Daniel Henchman, of Boston, and her 
consequent removal to that city, she exhibited 
those virtues and affections for which lier new 
position gave exercise. Especially did the 
sweet fidelity of maternal care, find a conge- 
nial soil in her heart. She faithfully esti- 
mated the responsibility of training for this 
world and the next, those buds of immortality 
that were laid upon her bosom. Patient, lov- 



TRIBUTE. 313 

ing, and loved, she passed on her way, finding 
the duties of this life so adjusted to the hopes 
if another, that Faith viewed them but as 
stages in one and the same existence ; the fair 
restibule and the eternal temple. 

She was frequently a sufferer from ill- 
health, during the latter years of her life, but 
always gentle and uncomplaining. In the 
summer of 1839, while on a visit to Hartford, 
her native place, she was suddenly summoned 
to exchange worlds, leaving five children to 
hold her in affectionate remembrance. 

Children, your mother sleepeth long, 

This sultry summer-day, 
And ye have hush'd the sport and song 
As wont, lest ye might break 
The rest that weariness would take ; 

Ye need no more 
The finger on the silent lip to lay, 
Or shrink the racking cough to hear 
That wore her flesh away. 
Like snow-wreath on an April-day,— 
Those pains are o'er. 

Come nearer, little one, 

Yes, lift the veil, 
O'er that white pillow thrown. 
27 



314 TRIBUTE. 

How cold ! how pale ! 
How still, the thin hands rest 
On the unheaving breast, 
The bright hair parted o'er the peaceful brow. 
She moves not on her bed, 
Though many round her tread, 
Ah ! do they whispering say, the darling mother's dead , 

Sweet ones, she's gone 

Above this clouded sky, 
Where near the everlasting throne 

The winged seraphs fly ; 
Where are no pangs, or fears, 
W^here are no parting tears, 

There is her home on high. 

Dear, mourning flock, who weep 

A sainted mother fled, 
Think of her lessons, soft and deep, 
Breath'd at the hour of childhood's sleep 

Beside each little bed ; 
And keep her memory fresh and green. 
And strive to do your Saviour's will. 
And trust her pure eye marks you still, 

This veil of flesh between. 



Miss Mary Jane Chester, at her first en- 
trance among us, was one of the younger pu- 
pils. She is before me now, as she then was, 
with her exceedingly fair complexion, pleasant 
smile, and graceful manners. I almost ima- 
gine that I again hear the tuneful cadence of 
her voice, repeating her favorite Ode of Henry 
Kirke White, 

" Come, disappointment, come ! 
Thou art not stern to me." 

She was loved by the companions with whom 
she pursued her studies. On one occasion, 
when she received their suffrages for the 
honor of being crowned with flowers, as hav- 
ing excelled in amiable deportment through- 
out the year, it was remarked, " If votes could 
19 



316 SKETCH. 

ever have heart in them, ours would surely be 
full of it." 

After the dispersion of our school, she was 
particularly active in the charitable society 
which continued for many years to bind its 
members together, in unity of feeling. When 
the natural loveliness of her character, had 
received the infusion of true piety, it earnestly 
showed forth that love which is its life, to all 
who came within the sphere of affinity, or 
duty. As a sister, her deportment was mark- 
ed by unswerving tenderness, and when op- 
portunity offered, by judicious advice. Her 
filial affections were developed w4th uncom- 
mon strength and beauty. During the last 
sickness of her father, she devoted herself to 
his service, relieved him as far as possible, 
from the cares of business, copied for him in 
her careful and beautiful chirography, read 
aloud to him, labored to strengthen his faith, 
and as the failing breath ebbed away, suppress- 
ed her own grief, that she might breathe into 
his ear, those holy promises that sustain the 
soul through the dark valley. With the 



SKETCH. 317 

widowed mother, so perfect were her sym- 
pathies, so constantly did she strive to shield 
her from every care or sorrow, that those who 
saw her daily course of life, were accustomed 
to say, that "she did all but breathe for her," 
so unvarying was her example of attention 
and love. 

Her marriage, in 1834, to the Rev. Sylves- 
ter Hovey, opened a new class of duties, in 
which without forfeiting her interest for earlier 
friends she was equally a model. During a 
winter's residence in the island of St. Croix, 
for the benefit of his health, she not only 
exerted all her winning influences for the pres- 
ervation of his cheerfulness, but identified 
herself so much with his studies as to reap 
that improvement which her mind always 
pursued and prized. Large and scientific col- 
lectiono of Botany, and Conchology attested 
how zealous had been their researches in 
Natural History. Discovering that the lus- 
trous seed of the wild Tamarind, was capable 
of being wrought into ornamental bags, she 

constructed a variety of exquisite patterns, 

21* 



318 SKETCH. 

and then taught the art to a woman who de- 
pended on her own exertions for support, and 
who found it no inconsiderable source of 
profit. In the elegant and useful works of 
female ingenuity she was an adept. System- 
atic industry enabled her to complete many 
tasteful gifts for her friends, as well as dura- 
ble fabrics for the poor. 

She was in the habit of recommending 
useful and religious books to her acquaint- 
ance, and of turning conversation to them, 
rather than to personal subjects. She was 
fond of inducing friends, especially if not de- 
cidedly pious, to peruse the Scriptures, in 
course with her, on such a plan that each 
should read daily the same portions, and at 
the close of the Sacred Volume, mutually 
communicate the impressions they had re- 
ceived. She early took upon her the labor of 
a teacher in the Sabbath-school, which she 
continued many years. Her efforts for her pu- 
pils, and the letters she was in the habit of 
writing them, some of which are preserved in 
her journal, reveal an almost maternal anxiety 



SKETCH. 319 

for their salvation. More than one of them 
refer their first deep religious impressions to 
her ; and a precious tribute to her faithful in- 
structions is given in the memoir of Mrs. Mary 
E. Van Lennep, the lovely and beloved young 
missionary who found an early grave on the 
shores of the Bosphorus. 

" Out of her own family," says her father, 
R-ev. Dr. Hawes, " no human being exerted a 
greater, or more happy influence in the forma- 
tion of her character than Mary Jane Chester, 
afterwards Mrs. Hovey. I feel grateful to God 
that my child in her tender age enjoyed the 
instructions, the prayers, and the example of 
one so well qualified to cherish her piety, and 
to elicit and mature her virtues. From her, 
she received many most valuable suggestions, 
in regard to the daily reading of the Scriptures, 
the practice of private devotion, self-discipline, 
and the cultivation of personal religion." 

So pleasant was the habit of teaching, and 
so earnestly did she desire to disseminate the 
blessings of that Gospel, wherein was her hope, 
that during the short time of her residence in 



320 SKETCH. 

St. Croix, she exerted herself to establish a 
Sunday-school, in that region of comparative 
ignorance. Intelligence afterwards arrived of 
its continued prosperity, that it numbered 
more than 400 members, 27 teachers, and 
had in connection with it, an infant school. 
But ere this announcement came, she had 
entered into the " rest that remaineth for the 
people of God." 

Her character has been thus gracefully 
sketched by one who well knew her daily 
life, as '' frank, without indiscretion, — so- 
cial, yet not intrusive — devoted in friend- 
ship, without selfishly demanding returns — 
industrious without parade — cheerful, w^ithout 
levity — fond of improvement, not that it might 
be observed, or praised — actuated by princi- 
ple, yet not forgetting to make its prompted 
course agreeable to others — loving to do good, 
yet not thinking anything was done, while 
aught remained undone." 

At the commencement of 1840, when the 
new-year had been but a few days with us, 
she died, after an illness of nearly two months. 



SKETCH. 321 

Her reason and her faith were unclouded. She 
said, — " When I am so weak that I cannot con- 
trol my thoughts, I can trust!''' With tender- 
ness and discrimination, she left parting words 
for her friends, and for her former Sabbath- 
school pupils, who were still near her heart. 
On the last night of her life, she dictated with 
her failing breath, messages to absent kindred. 
" Tell my dear sister to live near to Grod. If I 
can never see her more, charge her to live 
nearer to God." Of her infant daughter not 
two months old, she said with emphasis, — " Be 
sure that you educate her for heaven, not for 
this world." Yet the full education of Heaven 
soon awaited it, for ere its second birth-day, it 
followed her, and in four months after the an- 
cestral tomb closed on her fair form, its vault- 
ed door opened to admit her husband, to slum- 
ber by her side. 

In the funeral sermon delivered on the Sun- 
day after her interment, her beloved pastor, 
the Rev. Dr. Hawes, after representing true 
piety as the source and crown of her many 
excellencies, forcibly adds, 



322 TRIBUTE. 

" How touching was the eulogium pro- 
nounced over her corpse by a poor woman, 
when, with sobbing breast and streaming eyes, 
she exclaimed, — " I have lost my best friend, 
my dear benefactress, who has so often com- 
forted, and helped me. She is gone, I shall 
see her no more." How empty is all the 
pageantry of show, and gaiety, and fashion 
compared to one such testimony as this." 

To us, all earth-born as we are, 

How dark, and dread a doom it seems, 

To break away from things most fair, 
The tissue of our cherish'd dreams ; 

From tenderest love's confiding breast, 
A happy home, a mother's prayer, 

Fraternal ties so fondly blest, 

And long- tried friendship's changeless care ; 

From the sweet smile the entwining arms 

Of helpless infancy to turn, 
From all this strong array of charms 

Go lonely forth, and ne'er return. 

Yet thou, oh habitant serene. 

Where mind expands so full and free, 

Bright dweller in a cloudless scene, 
Say, was the path so drear to thee ? 



TRIBUTE. 323 

Seemed not the Spoiler's transient sting 

The gentle gasp, the parting sigh, 
Like dust on that unfetter'd wing 

"With which the eagle cleaves the sky ? 

But we, borne down with grief and fear — 

Too weak a seraph's faith to reach. 
Still feel our God forgives the tear 

That aids our penury of speech. 

And many a precious trace we hoard, 
Thy hallowed deeds, thy purpose pure, 

Thy childhood's morn, with goodness stored. 
The ripened worth of years mature, 

As gems bequeathed us, ere thy flight. 
Flowers by thy hand profusely given, 

Rays from an angel's urn of light. 
To cheer our upward track to Heaven. 



Miss Eliza A. Smith, as I now recall her 
image, seems again near my side, in the un- 
clouded gentleness, and happiness of her grace- 
ful youth. The peculiarly beaming smile that 
often lighted her fair brow, when she entered 
the school-room, or raised it from the studious 
page to meet the face of a friend, seemed the 
language of perfect love. Such and so un- 
shadowed was her transparent character, while 
she sought with us the treasures of knowledge. 

Her marriage, in 1827, to Wyllys King, 
Esq., and their subsequent removal to St. 
Louis, Missouri, gave her opportunity of cul- 
tivating a regard for the regions of the rich, 
free-hearted West, and of being appreciated in 
return. Mingled with retiring modesty, there 
was within her that pleasant principle of 
assimilation that makes the stranger a friend. 



TRIBUTE. 325 

She possessed that essential attainment, and 
truest patriotism of woman, the science of 
making a happy home, and of rightly training 
all those committed to her charge. Her 
*' good works were those of a woman profess- 
ing godliness," and living under its power. 

As her virtues and attractions were ardently 
appreciated in her own abode, and by the wit- 
nesses of her daily life, so was the anguish 
proportionably bitter and intense, when sud- 
denly, with her new-born babe, she was re- 
moved, in the summer of 1840, leaving three 
little ones to ask in vain for their mother. 

There's mourning in the far, green West, 

Where broad Missouri flows, 
There's mourning in a pleasant bower 

Beside a smitten rose. 

Though countless blossoms on its breast 

The mighty prairie weaves, 
And clouds of incense load the air 

From their unfolding leaves, 

Still was this lone, transplanted flower 

Most precious deem'd, and fair, 
For heavenly balm was in its heart 

To heal the wounds of care. 
28 



326 TRIBUTE. 

And sorrow with its deepest shade 
Involv'd the stricken bower, 

Where from its clasj^ing, chistering buds 
Was snatch'd that eastern flower. 

But, of a garden in the skies, 
That temj^est ne'er may reach, 

Nor frost invade, nor blight destroy, 
Faith bows herself to teach. 

And thither may we rise at last, 

Above the Spoiler's strife, 
And walk amid the trees of God, 

Beside the fount of life. 



Miss Mary Dodd Russ, was a younger sis- 
ter of the second of my beloved band of early- 
summoned ones. She possessed a superior in- 
tellect, and the ability to excel with slight 
effort in scholarship. To these endowments 
were united warm, impulsive affections, and 
a noble, generous nature. She had great fond- 
ness for reading, and her opinions both of 
books and living characters were expressed 
with strength and originality. Those who 
knew her intimately in ripened youth, will 
vividly remember her strikfng and finely va- 
ired countenance, her brilliance in conversa- 
tion, and her capacities for ardent, confiding 
friendship. 

In the spring of 1834, she became the con- 
sort of Silas E. Burroughs, Esq., and trans- 
ferred her residence to the city of New York. 



328 SKETCH. 

As new affections expanded, the love of home 
and of her little ones so predominated, that 
social intercourse with the admiration she had 
there excited, lost its charm. She was unlike 
the intellectual lady of whom it was quaintly 
said in the olden time, " So highly exalted 
were her conversational powers, she counted 
all time lost, that was spent with the unfold- 
ing childish mind." Our sweet and talented 
friend approached the other extreme, volun- 
tarily sacrificing every claim to distinction, 
save what was interwoven with the progress, 
and hopes of infant existence. The maternal 
principle with its tender anxieties, and unut- 
terable joys, found a congenial soil in her 
affectionate heart, and covered it with so 
luxuriant a growth, that its former pleasures 
were overshadowed or forgotten. 

It was at the close of the winter of 1841, 
that tidings of the death of this kindly at- 
tached friend reached me while travelling in 
a foreign clime. They stated that she had 
repeatedly suffered from hemorrhage of the 
lungs, and lived but a short time after the 



TRIBUTE. 329 

birth of her youngest babe, of whose exceed- 
ing beauty all who beheld him, spoke. He 
soon followed her to the tomb, whither her 
first-born had preceded her ; while a daughter 
and son still survive, to cherish the memory 
of her devoted affection. 

Remember what her lip hath said 

Who now in dust is laid, 
And treasure every tender word, 

Like flowers that cannot fade, 

And wheresoe'er your lot is cast, 

Until with life you part, 
Still keep her image and her smile, 

As pictures in your heart. 

Remember her, whose warbled song 

Could charm your infant ear. 
Whose kiss each transient pain control, 

And quell the rising tear, 

Yes, deep amid your grateful thoughts, 

Where'er your footsteps rove. 
As on a graven tablet bear 

A mother's changeless love. 
28* 



Miss Caroline Morgan, was one of that 
number who greeted me at the opening of 
my school, and wept at its final separation. 
Throughout the intervening space of five years, 
she exemplified without variation, the duties 
and virtues of a model-pupil. She was dis- 
tinguished both by attention to study, and 
strict observance of the minutest regulations, 
not one of which did she ever break or forget. 
So systematic and faithful was she, that dur- 
ing this whole period she was never once late 
at school, nor absent a single day, except 
from indisposition. So dear was the place 
and so entire her application to its pursuits, 
that she would seldom accept even the recre- 
ation of the two short daily recesses, but pre- 
ferred to pass three unbroken hours in the 
morning, and three in the afternoon, in her 



SKETCH. 331 

school-room, where she ever quietly and pleas- 
antly employed herself. 

She seemed altogether right-minded, and 
consistent. One day was with her, like an- 
other. She was not stimulated to effort by 
praise or reward, nor dejected if they were 
withheld. Even at this distance of time, I 
look back with surprise at her unswerving ex- 
cellence, and confirmed humility. That low- 
liness of soul was hers, in which they who 
attain the highest degrees of perfection here, 
are wont to clothe themselves. True piety 
was the ground-work of her persevering good- 
ness, a piety which continued to mature 
through all the chanojes and water-floods of 
time. 

That she should carry the lineaments thus 
evolved in the process of education, through 
the relative duties of life, might have been 
expected. Filial affection was disclosed in 
every possible form to lighten the care, and in- 
crease the happiness of her parents. After 
their removal by death, she became an in- 
mate of the family of a sister, in Rochester, 



332 SKETCH. 

New York, where her society and example 
were counted invaluable. The death of that 
beloved sister, gave wider and more mournful 
scope for effort and sympathy, as a comforter 
in the desolated home. The bereaved chil- 
dren received from her disinterested love, judi- 
cious advice, and religious instruction. Free- 
dom from self gave her peculiar facilities for 
service to others, while her unobtrusive good- 
ness was fain to hide itself and its works 
from notice or applause. The sickness that 
closed her life was one of severe suffering. As 
it advanced, sharp paroxysms of pain ensued, 
whenever the slightest nourishment was re- 
ceived. Though appetite had not failed, one 
article of food after another was unmurmur- 
ingly resigned, and to the sympathy of friends 
who grieved to see her perishing with famine 
in the midst of abundance, she replied with 
her usual meek smile, — " My heavenly Father 
knows what is best for me. He will lay no 
burden that he gives not strength to bear." 
She, whose whole life had been marked by a 



SKETCH. 333 

childlike trust, was not left at last to the 
overshadowing of even a momentary cloud. 

It was to me a source of unspeakable grati- 
tude, that at this most solemn period of re- 
view and preparation, she should look back 
with complacence on the years spent under my 
instruction, and say that she had " felt their 
good influence throughout the whole of life." 
She was kind enough to. add, — " I am sorry 
that I have not been more forward in giving 
expression to my grateful feelings. You will 
tell her when I am gone." Priceless value was 
added to the little effusion entitled " Jesus 
of Nazareth passeth by," from the knowledge 
that it administered to her comfort, during the 
last days of her sojourn here below. When 
too weak to read herself, she repeatedly asked 
that it might be read to her, and exclaimed, 
" Beautiful ! consoling !" After she became 
unable to give any indication of her state of 
mind except in broken phrases, or by a fond 
pressure of the hand, it was observed that her 
lips moved, and the sister who bent over her 
pillow, caught in feeble intonations, 



334 SKETCH. 

" He hath borne it Himself, He will hear my cry, 
Jesus of Nazareth passeth by." 

Clasping her hands she said, still more dis- 
tinctly and with unusual energy, — " Oh yes. 
He is here. He supports me now. I feel 
assured I shall not be forsaken at my last 
hour." 

Inexpressibly touching were the low, tender 
tones in which she conversed with her loved 
nephews and nieces, calling them separately 
to her bedside, and beseeching them to seek 
that Christian armor, through which they 
might be enabled to resist the temptations 
and trials of life. The calm expression of her 
eye and countenance, added force to all that 
she uttered ; and her care for the comfort of 
others, and fear of giving unnecessary trouble 
to any, continued with her to the last. 

The burden of diffidence which she had 
borne from childhood, and sometimes lament- 
ed as an impediment to Christian usefulness, 
was taken away. Her spirit stood forth in 
freedom, when about to depart for its native 
skies. She spoke boldly and eloquently of 



TRIBUTE. 335 

the faith that had guided and sustained her 
throughout all her pilgrimage. The pastor 
who frequently visited her said that he sate 
by her bedside, " not to give^ but to receive 
instruction." In his discourse at her funeral, 
he remarked that he had never seen " a more 
perfect exemplification of the pov^er of faith 
in the atoning blood of Christ, to triumph over 
all fear of death." 

May I be permitted to add my testimony, 
that I have never seen carried out from child- 
hood, through the whole of life, a more un- 
deviating example of the humility that the 
Gospel teaches. 

Not like the proud and garish flower, 
That only on the noontide hour 

Bestows its fragrance fleet, 
But as the violet, meek and true, 
That changeless lifts its eye of blue 
Mid shade or sunshine, cloud or dew, 

Wert thou, companion sweet. 

To be content when pleasures fade, 
Trustful, when frowning clouds invade. 
And meek, when sunbeams shine. 



336 TRIBUTE. 

To smile when strength in vain hath striven, 
Nor murmur though the heart be riven, 
These are the sacred gifts of heaven. 
And, daughter, they were thine. 



Miss Cornelia Sophia Lathrop, a native of 
Norwich, Connecticut, was with me only dur- 
ing the last year of my continuance in the 
office of an instructor. During that period 
she w^as uniformly amiable in her dispositions, 
fond of the studies of the school, and compli- 
ant with its regulations. 

After her marriage, in the spring of 1828, 
to Greorge Wyllys, Esq., of Philadelphia, their 
residence was pleasantly established in the 
city of New York. But the happiness which 
she imparted and enjoyed in her new abode, 
was to be fleeting as the morning dew, and 
the flower of grass ; and in early widowhood, 
she returned with her little son to the pater- 
nal mansion. There, the sympathy of kin- 
dred hearts, the exercise of filial and maternal 
virtues, and the lenient influences of time, 
29 



338 SKETCH. 

and piety, softened the corroding effects of 
grief. 

Repeated bereavements left her at length 
the sole companion of a widowed mother. 
Hand in hand they pursued their solitary pil- 
grimage, all her fresh, earthly hope, centering 
in her only child. Years fled, and then, . the 
hectic flush burned on her cheek, and her fair 
flesh wasted, as when " the moth fretteth a 
garment." Before the enfeebled guide of her 
infancy, she laid her head on the couch ap- 
pointed for all the living. The aged mother 
lingered but a little while. Only a few sor- 
rowing steps lay between them. Lovely and 
pleasant were they in their lives, and scarcely 
in death divided. 

More tender are the associations that en- 
twine around this attached pupil, and friend, 
not only from the circumstance that we were 
both born in the same pleasant neighborhood, 
but that she lived and died in the mansion 
where I first saw the lisfht. The solemn 
shadow of her closing days, seems to mingle 
with the dreamy dawn of my newly- wakened 



SKETCH. 339 

life ; — the rose-tint of morning strangely blend- 
ing with the pale gold of an early sunset. 

She is the last among my cherished pupils 
over whom the grave has closed. The whole 
number that composed the school in Hartford 
was but eighty-four. Of these, twenty-six 
are no longer among the living. Their names 
are arranged in these pages, according to the 
order in which they were called to enter the 
spirit-land. 

Fifty-eight of our band still remain in 
homes widely separated. Long may they 
continue to shed blessed influences over the 
holiest duties of life, completing its climax 
by that highest lesson — " hoio a Christian can 
die:' 

The biographical traits which are here pre- 
sented, it is evident, are but imperfect sketches 
of character. It has not been always possible 
to possess myself of the incidents that would 
have usefully and beautifully filled the out- 
line ; or even to obtain copies of the simple, 
elegiac tributes, which the departure of those 



340 SKETCH. 

SO dear to me, called forth. Yet fragmentary 
as are these recollections, they are to me pre- 
cious, and will be so to other kindred spirits. 
For as we approach life's decline, the heart 
finds its treasures laid up with the departed, 
as well as with surviving friends. In its 
hours of lonely musing, it may turn for solace 
more to the past than to the present, forget- 
ting the injunction of the angel at the sep- 
ulchre, " not to seek the living among the 
dead." At such seasons it feels the truth of 
the assertion, that the " world's wealth is the 
memory and record of the great and good 
whom it has borne, whereby she upholds her- 
self, and steers onward through the yet un- 
discovered deep of time." 

I cannot but trust that this volume may 
meet a kind reception from those of my own 
sex, who, in the fair field of education, are 
either the cultured, or the-culturers. Its con- 
struction has consoled me in a time of adver- 
sity, while a weeper at the early grave of an 
only son. It has seemed once more to sur- 
round me with their sympathy, who gave me 



SKETCH. 341 

their young love when we walked together, 
culling fruits in the gardens of knowledge. It 
has brought back over the dial-plate of wan- 
ing life, bright haes and unfaded imagery. It 
will be soothing to me to leave it as a love- 
token, when the curtains of my own tent shall 
be taken down, and I " begin the travel of 
eternity." 



THE END. 



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